


Equal and Opposite

by andunetir



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, Food, Getting Monched by Spores, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, Vahar'ai, Warnings May Change, again only referenced in conversation, and it only comes up in conversation, in the form of neglect/abandonment so no physical abuse, nachos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2019-11-18 07:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18116093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andunetir/pseuds/andunetir
Summary: or, What Happens When You Bring Your Samoyed On Board A Starship.Ten months, eleven days adrift on a rock in enemy space. Eleven months, ten days drugged to the gills in a prison cell. They were never supposed to make it back, let alone find each other on a ship careening through the darkness on mushroom-power.Funny how the universe has a way of bringing people together sometimes.





	1. Collision

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Radiolaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolaria/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanon is perpetually in debt to Flo (Radiolaria) for the existence of [Milky Georgiou](https://onaperduamedee.tumblr.com/tagged/Milky-Georgiou).
> 
> Unbeta'd and unedited; all mistakes are mine.

There is a dog sitting at Reno’s station when she returns from lunch. A huge, fluffy white dog, at that.

She stares at it.

It _smiles_ at her, tail thumping happily against the floor.

Like, okay, she knew the night terrors were getting kinda out of hand, but she didn’t think a little sleep deprivation would give her _hallucinations_. And she’s been meaning to see a therapist, she swears. But the hunt for the Red Angel has been rough on the ship, and engineering has had their hands full keeping _Discovery_ up and running. Especially now that they’re also chasing some Vulcan across the galaxy.

The dog pants at her. It seems friendly, so Reno cautiously approaches it. The tail-thumping doubles in frequency and the dog’s smile, if possible, widens.

She bends down and offers her hand. The dog doesn’t even bother sniffing at it before enthusiastically covering it with saliva. Not a hallucination, then—or a very, very realistic one. She’ll decide which it is after another cup of coffee.

Behind her, a voice says, “Pet him on the chest, he likes that.”

Reno stiffens. She straightens slowly as the stairs echo with footsteps, then jumps as the voice pipes up right next to her.

“Good boy. Who’s your new friend?”

The question is directed at the dog, but the officer—rear admiral, going by her badge—is looking at Reno. Her eyes are sparkling, her smile warm as she kneels to rub the now-ecstatic dog all over.

“Commander Jett Reno, engineering. I take it the dog isn’t standard Starfleet-issue?”

The admiral shakes her head. “I’m afraid Ops bronze wouldn’t go well with his white. It would be a crime against fashion. Like those new uniforms they’re issuing.”

She stands, holding out her hand. Reno takes it before she remembers about the dog drool.

“I would apologize, but dog saliva’s antibacterial anyway.”

“As is honey, but I’d only want one of those things in my tea.” The admiral grins. “Philippa Georgiou. It’s been a pleasure, Commander—I’m sure Milky agrees.”

The dog, hearing its name, barks. It seems rather pleased with itself, which only further cements the idea that this has all been one elaborate figment of Reno’s imagination.

The thought distracts her for long enough that she doesn’t immediately realize what Admiral Georgiou is holding in her other hand. It’s only when the doors are already closing behind her that Reno calls out, “Hey! Where do you think you’re going with that?”

****

The dog is definitely a hallucination. There can be no other explanation as to why it would be in the gym at 2315, on a night when Reno just so happens to decide tiring herself out would be the most efficient means of achieving REM sleep.

What’s more, it’s _jogging on her favorite treadmill_. She stares at it. It’s facing ahead, but one fluffy white ear swivels towards her in what she assumes is the canine version of a friendly wave.

“Okay, buddy. Have I finally lost it? Occipital-parietal flow out of whack, is that what this is?”

The dog doesn’t respond. _Of course not, Reno, it’s a fucking_ dog.

It’s too much, all of a sudden. She spent ten months, eleven days on a rock floating through enemy space. She’d rest when she got the hell out of there, that’s what she kept telling herself. Only, now that she _is_ out of there, her ears refuse to stop searching for the sounds that never came. Harsh syllables and grating metal and footsteps too heavy to belong to a Federation species—and, no matter how many times they tell her the war is over, Reno can’t fully bring herself to believe it. Not until she’s seen it for herself.

But it’s not like she could just waltz up to Captain Pike and ask him to drop her off on Qo’noS. Jesus, it’s not like she _wants_ to. All those nights spent in a cold sweat, tinkering with what was left of the ship so she wouldn’t have to watch her hands shake—she meant it when she said she never needed to see another bat’leth in her life.

Which leaves her here. In the gym at 2315, trying to get a good long run in so maybe her body will get a few hours of rest before her mind kicks her upright again.

Except there’s an imaginary dog occupying her favorite _fucking_ treadmill, and it’s too much, it’s all too much, she can’t—

The doors to one of the multipurpose rooms whoosh open, and a voice she recognizes says, “Oh look, Milky, Commander Reno came to say hi!”

The mention of her name jolts her out of her thoughts. She blinks, looking up at a sweaty Admiral Georgiou and an amused and equally sweaty Commander Burnham. They must have been doing yoga or ballet, or something; definitely not meditation, though. She’s pretty sure not even Vulcans meditate hard enough to sweat like that.

She realizes, a split second too late, that they’re waiting for her to say something.

“First my station, now my treadmill? If your dog takes over my quarters, I’m giving him a PADD and a uniform and going cliff diving.”

Georgiou snorts, beckoning for Milky to come—which he does, hopping ungracefully off the treadmill. “Sorry to disappoint, but he’s been requisitioned by Command. He won’t say no to some treats over lunch, though.”

“In the middle of the night?”

Georgiou raises an eyebrow and wow, yeah, the sardonic effect of that minute movement is devastating, holy shit, Reno has got to learn how to do that. “I appreciate your eagerness, Commander, but I was thinking of when you take your mid-shift break. About 1330, if I remember our last meeting?”

“You mean when you stole valuable engineering equipment?” Burnham shoots Georgiou a capital-L Look; Georgiou presses her lips together, but there’s a gleam in her eye, so Reno figures she’s not gonna be demoted for it or anything. “The Chief chewed us out for that, I’ll have you know.”

“First of all, I prefer ‘aided in the misplacement of engineering equipment,’ and second, a flux coupler is far from the most valuable equipment you’ve got hidden down there.” The gleam is now an outright sparkle—is the admiral having _fun?_ —and even Burnham appears to be suppressing a smile. “Third, you did absolutely nothing to stop me. Which makes _you_ my accomplice.”

Reno considers her for a moment, then heaves a dramatic sigh. “Lunch better come with an explanation and nachos with extra everything.”

“The best the replicators have to offer.” Georgiou winks—actually, honest-to-God _winks_ at Reno—before heading to the doors, Burnham and Milky flanking her like her own personal security escort. “See you in the mess, Commander!”

She didn’t realize just how much she’d appreciated having something to fill up the silence until they’ve left. She looks down at her hands, which have been still and steady at her sides for the first time in—you know what, she doesn’t even want to think about how long.

She steps onto the treadmill the dog has vacated, entering her parameters the old-fashioned way so she doesn’t have to hear the sound of her voice in the empty room. She has a feeling this is gonna be a good run; here’s hoping she’ll get an equally good night’s sleep afterward.

****

She should’ve known God or karma or whatever wouldn’t cut her a break. She _did_ know, she just thought, because it had been an amusing conversation and a pretty solid workout, that it might perhaps have _not_ been unreasonable to expect a good, say, four hours of brain bye-bye time.

Funny how reality will rip the rug out from under you. She downs more caffeine than is legally advisable and heads to work.

By the time lunch rolls around, she’s still not entirely sure she hadn’t imagined the whole encounter in the gym. But there’s only one place to get proper food on this ship, so she heads to the mess at 1330, only half expecting to see Georgiou there.

A cursory glance reveals no admiral. The dog, however. That damn dog is sitting at a table with a bunch of junior officers, like, actually sitting _in a chair,_ with a tray of what Reno can only assume is dog-friendly food. The junior officers are cooing over it, and the dog is visibly vibrating with delight from all the scratches and pats it’s receiving.

Behind her, Georgiou announces her presence with a cheerful, “Jealous of my dog already?”

Reno just about manages not to startle and send her lunch splattering down her front, which she’ll take as a victory. “Did you always want to jump-scare engineers when you grew up, or did you just never learn how to knock?”

Georgiou chuckles at that, moving around Reno to get to the replicators. “Computer, large bowl of nachos, extra everything, please. Yes to both, but primarily the third option.”

“Which is?”

“That I’ve appreciated your sense of humor on both our run-ins and want to get to know you. Come,” and she plops the bowl onto Reno’s tray and whisks it out of her hands before Reno can protest, “sit. While Milky has their undivided attention, I’m afraid you have mine.”

She sets the tray down and pulls out a chair for Reno as if she expects her to—wow, okay, she really does mean to push the chair in under Reno like an old-timey gentleman, what the fuck. How long this woman will continue to surprise her, Reno is curious to find out.

Georgiou steals a nacho as she takes her own seat, popping it into her mouth with a grin. “So, Commander. Did you always want to be jump-scared by a superior officer when you grew up?”

Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation talking, or maybe Reno’s just that starved for interpersonal connection—not that she hasn’t had _any_ interactions with the rest of the crew, she’s just always been a little bit of an outsider. Besides, she's new to _Discovery,_ so she missed all the big team bonding moments—but she finds herself wanting to give Georgiou a straight answer. Her sense of humor, the thing most people stumble on and never quite get over, is the thing Georgiou said she liked about her. And Georgiou—flux coupler thief though she may be—is _cool_. She hasn’t missed a beat when Reno said things her Academy roommate would have deemed _classic gearhead,_ hasn’t looked at her like yet another war victim-turned-inspirational survival story. Reno senses, deep in her bones, that Georgiou _gets_ it. Gets _her_ —and that is such a rare and beautiful thing that she wants to spill her guts and spew her guts, simultaneously.

“You’d think, right? But, no. I wanted to be a space pirate. Honest to God, hand on heart. I think what I really wanted was space exploration but with, like, zero accountability. Figures I’d end up here, huh?”

Georgiou tilts her head thoughtfully. “Hmm, I can see that. Little Jett Reno with her eyepatch, sailing across the Milky Way in a cardboard box-ship.”

Reno knows, logically, that it’s meant to be cute and nostalgic, but the mention of cardboard boxes hits a nerve and she’s talking too much, too fast, before she can stop herself. “Yeah, well. More like little Jett Reno in her cardboard box-house, wishing on all the stars she could see through the hole in the ceiling for a magical pirate ship to whisk her far, far away from this craphole.” Upon seeing the horror dawning on Georgiou’s face, she adds, “Don’t worry, Child Protection got to me before I was completely and irreversibly fucked. Think I should send them a gift basket?”

To Georgiou’s credit, she recovers herself quickly. “You may be a couple years late for that, but I’m sure they’d appreciate the sentiment. Especially if it’s really just one big basket of nachos with extra-cubed everything.”

“Hey now, these are freaking delicious.” She grabs a handful of gooey, crunchy heaven and shoves it in her mouth to illustrate her point.

“Oh, I’m not disputing that at all. Hence why it would make a particularly wonderful gift basket.” Reno nods, mouth far too full to talk. “When you’re done chewing, you should tell me what else you like to eat. I’m so painfully Malaysian, I have to compare notes with everyone. Especially someone with such refined taste buds as yourself.”

Reno nearly chokes at that, because, “Me? Will down nearly anything that won’t kill me as long as it has a so-so to reasonable ratio of nutrients per unit time, me?”

“No one who likes nachos is entirely irredeemable.” The gleam in her eye is back, along with the bright smile that probably has junior officers fawning over her. “Except for Captain Enamori Jenn, who once had the _nerve_ to eat them with chopsticks in my presence. I would have ended our acquaintance there and then, but lucky for her I have a soft spot for highly capable, intelligent women.”

Her smile is no less bright, but it shifts into something almost conspiratorial as she holds Reno’s gaze. There’s a warmth to it, too, a fondness that makes Reno want to lay her head in Georgiou’s lap and never move again.

Then the revelation hits like a shuttle in an asteroid belt. _Oh my God, is she_ flirting _with me?_

_I think she likes me._

_I think_ I _like_ her.

_Oh my God._

_Well,_ shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enamori Jenn is a character from the Disco novel _Drastic Measures_ , and apparently I've made it a personal mission to reference her in everything I write because I love a queer-coded woman in command.
> 
> Love it? Hate it? Have predictions for what the next chapter will bring? Leave me a comment and come yell at me on [tumblr](http://andunetir.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Friction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No spoilers, but for those of you who are up to date on season 2 (more specifically, on Reno's character in S2), all I will say is that this fic has been canon divergent from the start and I can do whatever I want. Suck it, Disco writers.
> 
> Unbeta'ed and unedited, all mistakes are mine.

Lunch with Georgiou becomes lunches with Georgiou, as the admiral just so happens to be in the mess every time Reno shows up. It feels rather like a set-up. Reno considers making some excuse or other to bow out early, but what would she do then? Go back to work for that extra half-hour’s pay? Wander around the ship like a serial killer? Head back to her quarters and collapse against the wall, letting her too-loud breaths carry her back to the _Hiawatha_ of those ten months, eleven days?

Or she can listen to Georgiou talk about owning a pub in London (“I had a job there before I was old enough to drink”). Can tell her Reno once broke her thumb trying to tighten something without a wrench, in exchange for daring tales of young Lieutenant Georgiou, holding her broken console together with one hand while delivering kill shot after kill shot with the other (“Don’t try it at home, kid”).

And, yeah, the one-on-one conversation gets overwhelming sometimes. But then Georgiou says, “Do you deny that your handshakes tend to involve viscous bodily fluids?” and Reno replies, “I’m hardly gonna stick my hand into something called a _slime devil,_ ” and Georgiou counters, “Regardless of intent, your track record suggests that the odds you will be assigned to a diplomatic mission and subsequently attacked by one of those things are ridiculously high and, therefore, you are hereby banned from Deneb IV,” and doesn’t give Reno a chance to answer before adding, “Fight me”—and Reno finds herself wanting this. Wanting _more._

Wanting Georgiou, whose lips quirk upward despite the determined set of her mouth. Reno wonders what they would feel like under her fingers. Soft and smooth, if she had to guess. Fascinating, like the rest of her.

“I overheard Burnham and Pike commiserating after you handed them their asses. Your fists of fury can pass me and my nacho belly right on by, thanks.”

Georgiou hums, pleased. “A lifetime of martial arts practice. I like to keep people on their toes.”

So, Reno stays for lunch. She lets Georgiou steal bites of her burgers and sandwiches, accepts proffered spoonfuls of noodles and curry and rice. The dog wanders around licking people as they talk about everything and nothing. Things Reno never gave much thought to sharing come tumbling right out of her and into Georgiou’s hands. Hands that move like a ballerina’s onstage, careful but sure. Beautiful. Confident. Every gesture elegant, from fingertip to elbow.

If she had to put her secrets somewhere, Reno thinks Georgiou’s hands could be a safe place for them. It’s only a slightly terrifying thought. Not enough to keep her from looking forward to lunch every day.

The admiral is always in the mess at 1330, waiting. A couple of weeks into dining together, Reno decides to confront her about it.

“I start eating with the bridge crew when they break at 1230. They roll out just about when you come in, Commander.”

“That sounds convenient.”

“It is.”

Reno squints at her. Georgiou beams beatifically around a spoonful of ice cream.

“Don’t you have better things to do than take a double-lunch for little old me?”

Georgiou shrugs. “Perks of being in command, I can work my hours on my own schedule. And give yourself more credit. Milky likes you, you know.”

The dog sticks its head out from under the table at the sound of its name. It pants at Georgiou, then at Reno, then rolls over in a puff of white hair. Georgiou uncrosses her legs to rub its belly with the heel of one boot.

“So, you’re having lunch with me every day because your dog likes me.”

Georgiou tilts her head, considering Reno. “Or maybe I’m having lunch with you every day because I like you, too.”

Ever since realizing Georgiou’s interest in her, Reno has paid closer attention to their interactions. Georgiou, she’s noted, is a little bit coy with everyone. Exhibits A through C: a cheeky comment that made Captain Pike groan on the way to the turbolift, banter with the ensigns that sent them mock-swooning into the walls, a light kiss on the temple bringing the softest smile to Detmer’s face. But there is—Reno thinks—something different about the way Georgiou is around her. She waved at Reno as the doors closed on her and Pike, shot Reno a wink in passing with the ensigns, squeezed Reno’s shoulder after seeing Detmer off. Every action peripheral, yet deliberate. Not as if she had been looking for Reno, but as if she was reassured to find her there.

This, however. This is not peripheral. This is a declaration, an acknowledgment of this—this mutual attraction that might only be mutual in Reno’s head, oh God, has she given the admiral enough signs that she’s into her? Does Georgiou think Reno’s missed her cues, is she being straightforward now because she feels like she has to hammer it home?

Or is this just her way of saying she wants more than their lunches together? Reno searches the admiral’s face and finds no uncertainty. Only the same warmth and fondness she’s come to associate with Georgiou’s gentle flirtations.

That suave motherfucker. Reno’s too old to be blushing like this, but a woman who goes after what she wants will do that to you.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she shoots back, brain cells too scattered to formulate a more creative response. “Even if you still won’t tell me what you’re doing with that flux coupler.”

Georgiou snorts. “It wouldn’t be a _secret_ project if I told you what it was!”

“Well, shoot. Guess we’re gonna have to keep up these lunches, ‘cause _someone_ promised me an explanation and I won’t quit till she talks.”

She smiles at Georgiou, allowing some of the warmth and fondness she herself feels to show on her face. Or, at least, she thinks she does. Hard to tell without a mirror.

It probably works, though, because Georgiou huffs out a laugh. She holds Reno’s gaze for a long moment. Smiling, as radiant as the sun.

“I look forward to it. Don’t you, Milky?”

Under the table, the dog rolls onto Reno’s feet and sneezes into her uniform pants.

****

She reaches a good stopping point in her work a little before 1330, so she decides to head to the mess early. This, as it turns out, is a mistake: the end-of-rotation rush hits her with a tidal wave of unfamiliar faces, sending her reeling, dizzy, suddenly tense.

“Commander Reno?” says a voice she recognizes. The wave parts to reveal a concerned Burnham. “Are you alright?”

Reno blinks as the world recedes back to her normal field of view and remembers that, yeah, oxygen in your lungs feels pretty fucking great. She unclenches the fists she didn’t realize she’d balled up at her sides. “Never better, go-getter.”

Burnham doesn't seem convinced. Reno waves a hand dismissively, the floor restabilizing beneath her feet. “You live on a rock with a bunch of unconscious bodies for long enough, you forget how much noise people make. I do _not_ miss the primetime crowd, let me tell you that.”

Burnham regards her for a long time, but lets it slide. “You must be looking for Ca—Admiral Georgiou.” Reno nods. “She wasn’t at our table today. It’s possible that duty has called her elsewhere, and she will not be joining you.”

Reno glances over Burnham’s shoulder. The mess is indeed devoid of both Georgiou and her dog, the only lingerers a small group of medical officers arguing over a PADD. It stands to reason that she’s away because of work—but there’s a deep, sinking feeling that tugs at something deep inside Reno. _Somewhere between the heart and liver,_ she observes absently. _Terminates just above the large intestine. Kinda like a tendon, overstretched._

“Oh. Well. Thanks for letting me know.”

Burnham nods. “I’ll tell her you were here, if I see her.” She tilts her head, expression inscrutable. “I’m sure she’ll be sad to have missed you.”

She walks out with the last of the still-quarreling medical officers, head high and strides even. Reno watches her go before turning toward the replicators.

The nachos with extra everything are freaking delicious, as always, but Georgiou’s absence looms heavy over the entire room. Reno stares at the empty chair across from her and wonders how something that really isn’t a big deal could have completely blindsided her.

She thought she’d left sad solo lunches behind in middle school, damn it.

She swallows the last of her burrito and recycles her tray. Looks around—still no admiral or dog—then sits back down, pulling out her PADD and fiddling absently with it.

By 1425, she has a rough design for a new type of rolling droid and the aftertaste of disappointment in the back of her throat. Reno looks around one last time before sucking it up and returning to work.

 _She’ll be here tomorrow,_ she tells herself. It doesn’t help with the sinking feeling, but Reno knows how to pretend.

****

Georgiou is not there the next day. Nor the next, nor the next.

Reno would probably take it a little more personally if not for the deep frown on Burnham’s face when Reno replies that, no, she hasn’t seen the admiral either. “The captain might know where she is?”

Burnham shakes her head. “He last spoke to her four days ago.”

“Cornwall, or whatever her name is?”

“She said members of the Admiralty are free to travel as they see fit—”

“—Which is a total non-answer.” Reno sighs deeply. “She knows, but she won’t tell.”

“Leaving us to determine a suitable course of action,” Burnham agrees. “Saru, Keyla and I are considering sending her a message that we will track her down by any means necessary if she doesn’t respond within 24 hours.”

“That sounds good, yeah. Do it.”

Burnham tilts her head in that same inscrutable manner Reno’s come to associate with their midday encounters. “You should have lunch with us tomorrow. Can you swap with someone scheduled for an earlier rotation?”

“Don’t need to.” Burnham’s brow furrows, so Reno explains, “Engineering’s still figuring out what to do with me. Chief doesn’t care when I go on break as long as I check things off the list.”

“You’ve been here for a month.”

“Guess I’m not a priority.”

Burnham opens her mouth, then closes it against whatever she was about to say. “Well, then, I will see you tomorrow at 1230. Our table’s over there, by the viewscreens.”

Reno raises two fingers to her temple in a lazy salute. Burnham inclines her head, giving Reno a small smile as she turns to leave.

A few hours later, Reno’s sprawled on her back replacing a leaky pipe when she thinks she hears something scraping at the door. A chill runs down her spine, the sounds of Klingon speech and heavy footsteps ringing in her ears...

She shakes her head to clear her thoughts. Frowns, lifting her protective mask, and extinguishes the blowtorch as she listens with her heart in her throat.

Eventually, hearing nothing, she turns back to the pipe. But, before she can fire the blowtorch back up, the doors open. Crewman Harrington’s voice calls out, “Commander Reno? Dog for you.”

_Dog?_

Abandoning mask and blowtorch in the Jefferies tube, she wriggles back out into the blessedly cooler air of engineering. Sits up—and something drops into her lap as her face is assaulted by an enthusiastic tongue.

She shoves the fluffy white creature back and takes a second to just kinda stare at it. It pants, smiling down at her, disconcertingly taller than she is when sitting.

Yeah, she still doesn’t believe this dog is real. Damn thing just seems too _clever._

She looks up at an amused Harrington, a faint echo of the sinking feeling twinging inside her at the lack of Georgiou. “What the fuck?”

“He came knocking, wouldn’t quit till I let him in.” She gestures at Reno. “Looks like he brought something for you.”

Reno picks up the package in her lap. It’s a case—recently chewed, if the numerous tooth marks and saliva are any indication—that, once she’s opened it, contains an old-fashioned notepad and pen.

_Sorry I disappeared. Let me make it up to you? Dinner in my quarters tomorrow, 1900 :)_

Reno looks from the notepad to the dog, to Harrington, then back to the notepad. It’s ridiculous—sweet, but _ridiculous,_ because who even _writes_ any more? Who asks people out by _dog mail?_

She realizes, with a start, that she’s grinning like an idiot. Something within her warms at the thought of Georgiou sending Milky specifically because she wanted to make Reno smile.

Her penmanship is hopelessly out of practice, but she manages to scrawl a reply before shoving pen and paper back into the case.

_About damn time. Don’t eat all the nachos without me.  
P.S. How the fuck did your dog find me? Is he psychic? I need answers, G. _

The dog accepts the case with a delighted wag of its tail. It bounds up the stairs, nearly colliding with Harrington in its haste to leave. She and Reno watch it go before exchanging a look.

“Huh,” says the crewman. She glances over her shoulder, like she’s expecting the dog to come barreling back down the hallway. “I’m going to get back to work now, but this was fun.”

“No shit, Abercrombie and Fitch.” Reno looks down to find her shins covered with a dusting of white hair. “Thanks for not shooting the messenger.”

“Anytime, cowboy.” Harrington feigns tipping a hat at her as she leaves, which is why Harrington is one of maybe four people in engineering Reno can honestly say she doesn’t want to kick in the teeth.

She brushes the hairs off her pants, still thinking about Georgiou’s message. About the crude smiley face—again, who even _does_ that any more?—and the neat lines of ink, as if she, unlike Reno, often wrote.

The possibility of more handwritten notes is almost too good to consider. Reno reminds herself to take it easy. They’re having dinner tomorrow, that’s all.

Her PADD chimes, the sound strangely distorted. She must have left it in the Jefferies tube. She lies back down, scooching in towards leaky pipe and blowtorch and—she picks up the PADD, squinting at its brightness in the dim light—a newly opened text channel with Georgiou.

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** he’s a good boy!

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** and you have a nacho addiction

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Did you never learn what an answer was, either?

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Because that’s not it.

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** ;)

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** And hey, don’t bash the nachos.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** They’re freaking delicious.

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** they’re freaking delicious, i know xP

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** jinx!

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Oh my god.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** I can’t believe this.

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** you already said yes to dinner. no takebacks!

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Wasn’t going to, but I’m now questioning my decision.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** (That’s a lie. Don’t think I could say no to you if I tried.)

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** ^_^

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** wear something comfy

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** i’ve been in an ev suit for days

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** i’m gonna be in pyjamas for the next week and no one can stop me

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Are you always like this after hours?

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** you know what they say, when the ensigns are away…

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** why, do you not like this new me?

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Fishing for compliments in a saltwater lake, Admiral. I’m not falling for it.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Besides, you don’t need to.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** You’ve already caught me.

She hesitates before sending that, wondering if she’s crossing a line somewhere. She’s never been too good at the whole dating thing. Not that she and Georgiou are at that stage yet, really.

An eternity seems to pass in the moments after her thumb hits the screen. She’s suddenly aware of the sweat pooling in the small of her back, the tightness of the tube around her, the smell of coolants and oils and electricity.

But then the PADD lights up with a picture. It’s Georgiou, half-lit by a backdrop of stars, her hair loose over her shoulders and tongue stuck out in a goofy grin.

It really isn’t fair how good she looks. Especially like this, free of makeup and dressed in an oversized DISCO T-shirt.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Did you stand by a viewscreen just so you’d look cool?

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** hey!

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** i AM cool

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** space just makes me cooler

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** So… yes.

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** maaaaaybe

Reno shakes her head, snorting. The tension she’s been carrying around these past few days ebbs at the sight of the admiral, alive and well and back on board.

Back on board and being an absolute _dork._ Reno zooms in on her face, cataloguing the laugh lines and pigmentation, the light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

There are dark half-circles under Georgiou’s eyes that weren’t there before, too, but Reno figures that’s a conversation to be had in person.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Never change, G. At least, not before 1900 tomorrow.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Then we can talk about turning around this attitude of yours towards nachos.

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** only if we also discuss your attitude towards milky

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** he deserves your undying love and respect

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Does he really.

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** :(

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** why don’t you love my dog?

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** With all due respect, that’s a conversation I’m only willing to have in his presence.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** He should hear what we’re saying about him to his face.

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** aha! so you do care about his feelings!

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** There’s a difference between liking someone and loving them forever!

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** oh i’m with you on that

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** what i’m interested in is helping you grow from one towards the other

Was it always this hot in the Jefferies tubes? Reno has a feeling they aren’t just talking about the dog any more.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** You don’t play around, do you?

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** i have no idea what you’re talking about ;P

Reno stares at the message for the longest time, at a loss for a response.

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** you should get back to work

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** the faster you're done with your shift, the sooner we can chat

Right. Work. Reno had almost forgotten.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** You mean this cracked pipe that’s been spewing sludge into my face for the better part of today?

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Can’t wait.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Finally got it sealed off though. Engineering’s a bitch of a job.

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** glad i get to deal with trigger-happy diplomats and ranking officers with childhood issues none of them are willing to admit to instead

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Jesus H. Christ on a bicycle, paddling up shit creek.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** This is why I fix stuff, not people.

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** gods, i have so many stories i could tell you

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** but!

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** that’s for tomorrow. at 1900. when you’ll be done with work.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Hint taken and then some, Admiral.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Don’t wait up.

Another photo appears onscreen, this time of Georgiou curled up on a beanbag, pretending to be asleep. Reno catches a glimpse of her quarters in the background: a bottle that might be wine, the leg of what might be a table, a corner of what might be the bed.

She saves it, along with the previous photo, to a new folder on her personal drive.

By the end of her shift, all the pipes spanning half the length of the ship have been repaired, replaced or otherwise dealt with. Reno’s shoulders are aching in a way that tells her it’s going to be hard to get out of bed tomorrow. She’s covered in things she doesn’t really want to think about, her hair is sticking out in at least 7 different directions, and she probably won’t get any more sleep tonight than she’s been managing lately.

But then she gets out of the shower and pulls up the picture of Georgiou sticking her tongue out. Notices, for the first time, the snarls at the ends of her hair, and what looks like a stain on her sleeve.

The warmth coursing through her feels so good it almost hurts. She turns the PADD off with a sigh before getting under the covers.

Maybe sleeping tonight won’t be so bad, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be longer, but then these idiots started texting and I ended up having to move a whole chunk over to the next chapter instead. What dorks.
> 
> As always, leave a comment or come yell at me on [tumblr](http://andunetir.tumblr.com/)!


	3. Impact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... just ignore what I said in the beginning notes for chapter 2. Canon makes me her bitch sometimes. You'd think she'd be more consistent about it, but what can ya do.
> 
> There is one (1) minor spoiler for 2x12 with regards to Reno. It's, like, the one character development moment she had apart from the first ep, so if you've seen it, you know exactly what it is.
> 
> Unbeta'd and unedited and also it's past 2am where I am, so I'm very sure that there are lots of mistakes and they are all very much mine.

**GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** how can you like nachos but not popcorn?!

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Maybe you missed the briefing, but people are allowed to be complex beings, G.

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** ugh

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** is this all a ploy to continue fuelling your addiction? this feels like a ploy to continue fuelling your addiction

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** How are you still coming at me for that when I’ve stopped complaining about your dog?

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** nachos and milky are not on the same level!

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Hmm, you know what? You’re right.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Nachos are far superior ;)

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** D8 !!!!

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** (I’m kidding. Please don’t kill me.)

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** (I wanna go out eating one last bowl of nachos.)

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** …

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** jett reno

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** you have a serious problem

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** And you have a guest for dinner.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** See you tonight. No takebacks.

“Commander Reno?”

She looks up from the PADD to find Captain Pike with a chicken Caesar salad and a water—really? The man has muscles on muscles on muscles, there is _no_ way that is his entire lunch—smiling down at her.  “Yeah, unless there’s been a promotion I haven’t heard about. Preferably with a big ole raise.”

Pike grimaces, somehow managing to make it look genuine. “Alas. I haven’t seen you since you first joined us, thought I’d see how you were getting on.”

“Or you saw someone holding up the line and decided to strike up a conversation, so you could subtly maneuver me out of the flow of traffic.”

He considers her. “Mine was nicer.”

Reno collects her food and moves a polite two feet away from the replicator. “Mission accomplished. You’re welcome.” She hesitates, searching his face before relenting, “I’m doing alright. _Discovery_ ’s a helluva mistress, picky, but knows exactly what she wants. Bit of a small miracle. It’s how I like my women.”

Pike barely reacts. These damn Command types are so well-trained, they tend to forget what makes a person real. Georgiou is an exception—although, the more she talks to this guy, the more she thinks he might crack the mold a little. Good for him. Won’t keep him from growing any more grey hairs, but at least he can do it in style.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying the ship, but I was really talking about the people.” He gestures broadly with his salad. “Meet some new folks, make some new friends?”

Looking out over the mess, Reno catches Burnham’s eye. Burnham nods, pushing her tray forward to reserve the seat across from her before turning back to Owosekun. It’s a small gesture, barely two seconds out of Burnham’s life—but it touches Reno right in the gooey, cheesy center of her heart.

“I’m about to. The big kids are letting me sit with them today.” She points at the table with her chin, watches him crack a smile at the familiar faces there.

“Between you and me, those are some of the finest officers I’ve ever had the honor of serving with.” He pauses. “I’d include you in that group, but we haven’t really gotten to know each other yet.”

That’s a compliment if she’s ever heard one. She shifts her weight, trying not to show how oddly warm it makes her feel. “You gonna do something about that, or...?”

Pike’s smile widens into a grin. “How’d you like to join Nhan and I for dinner tonight? It’s supposed to be so we can fill out the security report together, but we always seem to amass enough friends to file the paperwork four times over.”

“Unfortunately for you, I have plans this evening.” Her eyes flick down to the PADD before she can stop herself; he follows her gaze to the text channel onscreen, his expression knowing. “You free some other day, or was this a one-time-only kinda deal?”

“How about lunch on Tuesday, if you’d forego the big kid table for a day?”

“Eh, if they don’t love me by the end of the hour, they’ll never want me within ten feet of them again. Works for you either way.” She steps neatly around him, bumping his elbow lightly with her own as she passes. “Captain.”

As Reno approaches the bridge crew’s table, Burnham tugs her tray back towards her. Reno plops her own down in the newly-vacated space. “You didn’t have to.”

“I asked you to eat with us. It would have been impolite to allow all the seats to be taken before you arrived, a failure on my behalf as the person who invited you.” Burnham raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow and yeah, Reno’s not winning this one.

“You can check that act of kindness off the list.” Detmer and Bryce look vaguely confused, so she explains, “A good deed a day keeps the demons away. Or something like that. Never really got the whole gist of Taoism.”

She’s used to the silence that follows pretty much everything she says, but the rest of the table looks uncomfortable. Bryce turns away, shoving more food in his mouth. She takes a bite of her teriyaki fish and points at Detmer.

“You’re the one who did the donut with the ship, right?” Detmer nods, warily eyeing the rice still speared on the fork as Reno gesticulates with it. “You wrecked the coupling between front thrusters and steering. Brake fluid cylinders, plural, cracked. Had to mop for days before we could even begin to reconnect everything. Think I lost some nerve endings in my fingers from all the zaps I got this week.”

She takes another bite, chewing unhurriedly while Detmer stares at her. It’s extremely awkward. Reno savors it almost more than the sweet, salty deliciousness currently inhabiting her mouth.

“You were _incredible._ ”

Detmer looks like she’s just been slapped in the face. Reno plows on, “Any other idiot would’ve crashed the ship. Or gotten the trajectory wrong and had to try again, which, no más with the steering like that. Cylinders were way overdue for repair, we overlooked them in the Red Angel hunt. And we found a bunch of faulty wires while we were opening panels to clean out the leaked fluid.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a rare smile beginning to spread across Burnham’s face.

“You know how many engineering issues conn officers are directly responsible for on your average starship? Two point three seven _per week._ Don’t sound like a lot, but when you’re trying to keep five million metric tons of pure goddamn physics up and running, a hairline crack fissures into the Grand Canyon before you even know it was there. This is the first time you've done anything to _Disco_ since whenever the hell you were commissioned. They don’t make pilots like you every century.”

“Hear, hear,” Owosekun pipes up, which Reno figures means the bridge crew doesn’t totally hate her yet. She raises her glass of violently pink smoothie.

“To Detmer’s donut. May she never attempt it again without alerting us grease monkeys to break out the duct tape.”

Burnham and Owosekun are quick to raise their own glasses, and the rest of the table soon catches on. “To Detmer’s donut!”

Detmer herself shakes her head, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of her lips. She tips her glass towards Reno. “Alright. You can stay.”

“Oh thank God, thought I was gonna have to get back in the box where they keep me.” Saru turns towards her, clicking; she waves her fork dismissively, sending teriyaki sauce spattering across the table. “Calm your pecs, Salt Tea. Now, who wants to brief me on what you were talking about when I dropped in?”

Owosekun makes a delighted noise around her mouthful of stew. “So there’s this thing we’ve been doing to pass the time on the bridge…”

****

“I leave for one week and they’ve made up a new game without me.” Georgiou shakes her head, taking a sip of her wine. “After all the meals we’ve shared. Loyalty is dead.”

Reno snorts. “Seriously? _Everyone_ missed you. Detmer even dedicated her victory to you. Did a whole slam dunk in your name with ‘execute,’ it was pretty cute.” She gives Georgiou a lazy two-fingered salute. “That pun was intended. You’re welcome.”

The admiral purses her lips, like she’s trying to hide a smile but refuses to admit she’s being melodramatic. “One day you’re showing them how to do a reverse 180 in an asteroid belt, the next they’re breaking your heart with auto-antonyms. They grow up so fast.”

“Reverse 180 in an—do I even _want_ to know what the ship looked like after you pulled that stunt? _If_ you pulled it, which, jury’s still out.”

“We did. Not with the ship, a shuttle.” Georgiou sets her glass on the floor, wriggling around on the beanbag until her legs are sticking up and the rest of her is lying down. “Keyla kept asking how I made my way through the Insari Belt under fire. I demonstrated in a more controlled environment and encouraged her to try it, with my supervision.”

“You _flew a shuttle_ through the _Insari_ —You call an _asteroid belt_ a ‘controlled environment?’ And then you let a _junior officer_ —hold the front door, you and Detmer served together before?”

Georgiou tips her head back, solemnly regarding Reno upside down. “I was captain of the _USS Shenzhou_ for nine years. Keyla Detmer joined us fresh out of the Academy, eventually rising to the rank of helmsman on my bridge.” She picks up her glass, seems to think better of it, and puts it back down, sadness flickering briefly across her face.

“I knew the first thing. Just didn’t realize Detmer was one of yours, too.” Reno takes a hearty gulp from her own glass, sighing as it hits just the right spot. “Half the crew here come from _Shenzhou_. Way they all tell it, you were the captain to end all captaining.”

Georgiou does pick up her drink then, and, in a series of incredibly well-coordinated movements that has Reno questioning how hard she partied in her twenties, brings it to her mouth and chugs it upside down without spilling a drop. “Sentimentality tends to be sepia-tinged. It was an honor to serve on _Shenzhou_ , and I hope I did right by each and every one of them.” She flips herself right side up and stretches. “Now, nachos?”

The smile she flashes Reno is as sunny as always, but Reno sees something dangerously close to pain in her eyes. A story for another time, then. She plays into the deflection with a groan. “ _Hell_ yes. I’ve been waiting for my one true love for _hours_.”

“They say patience is a virtue,” Georgiou deadpans, swiping the nachos off the warmer and moving to sit next to Reno. “Here’s your death in a bowl. Don’t choke.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She picks up a chip with the perfect cheese-to-jalapeño-to-everything-else ratio, raises it to her mouth—

And notices Georgiou watching her with some emotion Reno can’t quite place. It’s soft, fond, but different from the way she usually looks at Reno. Gentler, somehow. Lit from within as if by a candle in a window, and Reno—Reno is being allowed to look in.

Philippa catches her watching and smiles, tired, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth suddenly so much more prominent than before. She looks old and sad, like she’s lived through all the heartache in the world and still gives herself up to be hurt again.

Reno recognizes it because she’s lived through it, herself.

In the hours between the end of her shift and 1900, Reno had found herself thinking about the last time she sat down to a meal with someone like this. It was her and Uine's separation-affirmation date, when they decided they loved each other too much to stay together or get a divorce.

They made a whole day of it. Visited all of their favorite places, held doors for each other, walked home hand-in-hand after dark. It was perfect. It hadn’t felt like a farewell.

The next morning, she kissed Uine the way she always did and left for her new assignment on board _Hiawatha_. They had stayed in touch, but hadn’t gotten a chance to meet up again in person before the Battle of the Binaries claimed _T’Plana-Hath_.

If only Uine had decided to use her own craft that day, instead of bumping a ride to save fuel. If only she could have let the dilithium industry go fuck itself for once in her life—

But that wasn’t the Uine she knew and loved. A bittersweet consolation, knowing that Uine had remained her familiar, particular self until the very end.

Ten months, eleven days was a long time to think about things, and there had been a few months to grieve before that, too. If Reno’s a hundred percent honest with herself, she offered to stay behind at least in part because she knew Uine wasn’t there to come back to any more.

She had loved her and she had mourned her, and, when a fluffy white dog had strutted into her life and paved the way for Philippa Georgiou, she had recognized the way her heart stuttered and reached for the admiral, needing to feel it again. It was what Uine had wanted her to do; she just wished Uine had lived long enough to say she told her so.

Maybe she just assumed Georgiou would be like Uine. Not _exactly_ like her—Uine’s response to most of the things Reno said was to refute her, she was eternally sour over losing the debate on whether or not Reno was allowed to still have extra-everything-nachos if she remained strictly vegan otherwise, she would never even _consider_ owning a “filthy, fur-shedding beast”—but similar, deep down, to the point where Reno thought she’d still recognize her in Georgiou.

But then she had arrived at Georgiou’s quarters in sweatpants and was greeted by the dog. Music played softly in the background, a shrimp and oyster po’boy clearly set out for Reno. It was a pretty big plate, but the ends of the sandwich jutted out over the edges, the small pile of accompanying onion rings close to overflowing beside it.

Just how Reno always insisted on having it, as it reminded her of the few happy memories she had of her family.

She had only mentioned it once before, while discussing comfort food with the admiral. She hadn’t thought Georgiou would remember; in hindsight, it was probably because Uine would have forgotten what she said and remembered only what she had had for lunch that day.

They ate on the coffee table, because the actual dining table was covered by a cloth that hid an awful lot of suspicious lumps (“The secret project,” Georgiou unhelpfully explained, “No touching or I’ll sic Milky on you.”). Georgiou seemed to have recovered from her trip, readily fielding questions about everything from her nasi kandar to why the dog was named Milky.

“Was it because of Harvey Milk, or did the boy just have a big appetite as a pup?”

“You can’t just ask someone why their name is what it is!”

“Reno’s because I was adopted in Reno, Nevada, made it my last name after I got the hell outta dodge and decided it was the one thing they gave me that I didn’t hate enough to get rid of. Jett’s from ‘Bennie and the Jetts.’ Your turn.”

“Wait, hold up. You? ‘Bennie and the Jetts?’" Reno nods. "Elton John? _Really?_ ”

“Before my sister knew she was my sister, she was my brother, Benjamin. She hated her name so fucking much, the only way she could stand to hear it was in that song. Used to sing it to her all the time to make her laugh. Fast forward and now ‘Bennie and the Renos’ are ‘Denise and the Jetts.’” Reno shook her head. “Always seem to just miss each other. She’s a good kid.”

“Huh.” Georgiou looked thoughtful, swirling her wine around in her glass. “I knew no one could have been born with such an inherently cool name.”

“Aww, cute. Still your turn. Milky?”

Georgiou sighed. “My ex-husband, Nikos and I adopted him not long after we got married. We knew we wanted the name to be space-related, but neither of us could decide on a star or planet, or even a system.” She began pointing towards something, but stopped herself, seeming to realize that whatever she was looking at wasn’t actually there. “The Milky Way was the one thing we could agree on. Apparently, neither of us cared strongly enough about galaxies to have a favorite. The one we’re from seemed like a reasonable compromise.”

Reno snorted. “You are _such_ a nerd.”

“I love space!” Georgiou huffed, setting her spoon down to gesture around them. “Space is amazing. We’re _in_ space right now.”

“Yeah, and you named your _dog_ after it. And then brought him into it. _Nerd._ ”

“And what’s wrong about that?”

“Nothing, except now I know that Admiral Georgiou, I’m guessing, still gets excited about watching supernovas.”

Georgiou rolled her eyes. “You’ve seen me in my pajamas, I think you can call me Philippa.”

“What, no pushback on the supernovas?”

“No, supernovas are awesome and people who don’t like them are weak.” She sipped her wine, holding Reno’s gaze over the rim of the glass. It was somehow devastating and hilarious at the same time. Reno had felt that fluttering of her heartstrings again—and it was nothing like what Uine would have said, nothing like what she would have done, that had caused the sensation.

“You can call me Reno, by the way. Jett’s for maybe-friends. Reno is strangers and people I actually give a shit about.”

Georgiou smiled in earnest then, a small, mischievous thing lighting up her face. “Rebel. I knew I liked you for good reason.”

The affection in that statement had warmed her from toes to cheeks. It felt even better than the day she’d finally finished rigging _Hiawatha_ with booby traps.

Now, looking at Philippa looking at her, Reno realizes that it’s not Uine she recognizes in the admiral. It’s the pieces of herself, put back together not quite the way they were when they broke.

And Philippa is being braver than Reno could ever be. Reno finds herself wanting to acknowledge her openness, to show her she’s been seen and understood and cherished for all that she is.

As if on autopilot, her hand moves the perfectly laden nacho away from her own mouth. Philippa’s lips part slightly, eyes widening as she clocks Reno’s intent, but Reno sees a smile starting to form as she opens her mouth to accept the crunchy deliciousness.

Her lips brush against Reno’s fingers, light as a butterfly’s wings.

“Mm.” Philippa shuts her eyes while she chews, as if savoring every last bit of chip dust. “That one was extra yummy. I’ll have to try hard to top that.”

Reno watches as she picks carefully through the bowl. She arranges the toppings on a beautifully curved chip.

“Here. Tell me what you think.”

It takes a moment before Reno realizes that oh, shit, Philippa is holding the nacho up to her, eyebrows raised expectantly. Her heartbeat swells until it’s all she can hear and she leans in, letting Philippa feed her in return.

She should probably pay more attention to how the nacho actually tastes, but she's distracted by the sight of Philippa licking her fingers, eyes crinkled with amusement. It occurs to Reno that Philippa’s tasting the same nacho that’s in Reno’s mouth. That’s suddenly the most mind-blowing thing, never mind that, technically, they never even touched.

Philippa is still waiting for a response. She swallows, barely registering the awkward lump that goes down.

“I think… that _you_ are fueling my addiction.”

“Drat, caught.” Philippa raises her hands in mock-surrender. “I confess, I may be developing an addiction myself.”

“Yeah?” Philippa nods, grinning. “Just don’t expect me to return the favor. I draw the line at nerd dogs.”

Philippa turns abruptly. “Milky!” The dog jolts awake, raising its head from its paws and launching itself wildly off the bed. “Tell him that to his face. You _said_ you cared about his feelings.”

Reno looks the fluffy monster dead in the eye. “Hi. I don’t like you, but your owner’s pretty cool, so I guess we’ll be hanging out a lot. Truce?”

“Shake, Milky,” instructs Philippa, and Reno solemnly takes the proffered paw. “You’re now legally obligated to be nice to him. And me, but you’re already doing that.”

“I’m adding ‘legally obligated’ to the list of things you were never taught how to do.”

“Oh, there’s a list now, is there?”

“Yup,” Reno pops the ‘p’ for extra punctuation, like a very thick and dark full stop that Philippa will probably barrel right through anyway. “Not my fault you keep adding to it.”

Philippa chuckles softly. “You are insufferable. Have another nacho.”

Reno takes it from Philippa with her teeth this time, flashing a shark’s grin before tossing her head back and chomping down. “Ohhh, _yeah._ Come to papa.”

Philippa shakes her head, looking up to the ceiling as if searching for salvation in the tritanium panels. “Computer, play whichever holovid I have queued up next. I thought we might watch something together?” she says to Reno. “We can look for one we both like—on _my_ list.”

Reno responds with another nacho, playfully refusing to let go once Philippa’s got her mouth on it. The impromptu tug-of-war ends when Philippa shoves her backwards, letting out the most adorable little growl.

The admiral glowers at her, arms crossed over her oversized T-shirt, crunching on her hard-won nacho. There’s a dab of curry on her shorts and beans smeared across the corner of her mouth, and Reno has never been so captivated by anything in her life.

Philippa sticks her tongue out to lick at the smear and takes the opportunity to cross her eyes at Reno. Reno snorts, curling her upper lip and wrinkling her nose right back at her.

“Are we gonna watch your—” she glances at the holovid— “informative program about stellar formation? I knew you were a nerd, but c’mon, G, this is way below your education level.”

“I _said_ we could look for something we both like.” Philippa tucks her feet under her, shuffling closer towards the bowl—and, by extension, Reno. “Milky, up. Didn’t I just tell you patience is a virtue?”

The dog hops up onto the couch beside her. It pants at Philippa, then at Reno, then lays its head on its paws and watches the clouds of virtual dust with rapt attention.

“Philippa, do you honestly wish a saint were here in my place?”

Philippa throws her head back with a full-bellied cackle. Reno waves her hand pointedly in an I-told-you-so gesture and gets a smack on the arm for her efforts.

“Computer, show queue.” Philippa is still chuckling as she scrolls idly through the list. “Ooh, what about this one?”

Reno skims the title and blurb with a frown. “Philippa, no.”

She’s distracted by the need for another nacho, fishing around until she has one that meets her criteria for maximum enjoyment. She doesn’t realize how much trouble she’s in until she looks back up and sees the deadly calm in Philippa’s eyes.

Reno freezes like a deer in headlights, nacho halfway to her mouth.

“Philippa, _yes._ ”

She selects the title without breaking eye contact.

Reno collapses back against the couch with a deep sigh of defeat. Wordlessly offers the nacho to Philippa, who takes it, sunny smile back at full force.

As the vid begins to play, Philippa does a happy little wiggle. Her eyes are wide, transfixed on the scene beginning to unfold before them.

Reno goes in for another nacho, but stops midway, thinking about the distracting quality of crunching versus how clearly Philippa wants to watch this. It’s a tough decision. She bats it back and forth for all of thirty seconds in her mind before resting her hand back in her lap, with a rueful glance at the four and a quarter chips left in the bowl.

For Philippa’s sake, she tries to pay attention. She’s not quite sure she succeeds before everything fades to black.

****

She surfaces like she’s clawing her way through pudding, fumbling for consciousness, unsure where she left it on the nightstand. She’s moving, rocking a little like a hammock on a boat, suspended by something under her arms and across the backs of her knees.

Then, cool softness on her heels, calves, back. Another cool soft thing pulled over her, her body heat quickly turning it into a warm soft thing.

Fingers card gently through her hair. A voice she recognizes murmurs, “I’ve got you. Go back to sleep.”

She blinks, taking in sharp angles and deep shadows. Dark eyes, looking down at her.

“It’s okay, you’re safe. Go back to sleep.”

That voice, so calm and in control. The fingers in her hair, soothing. _Safe._

She turns over and nuzzles into the softness. Everything slowly fades away again.

****

She moves from asleep to awake like passing through a membrane, quick and unceremonious. It’s familiar, yet so _not_ that it takes her a moment to remember that she hasn’t been sleeping well.

Yeah, this is what _rest_ feels like. She’d completely forgotten.

She lies there for a little while, marveling at how _new_ everything feels. Her limbs are so light, it’s like she’s floating on a cloud. Or that might just be the mattress.

Which… is not her mattress, and she does not own a big fluffy white dog. Much less the one that’s currently smiling up from the pillow beside her.

She turns away and shifts a little under the covers, stretching her legs, rubbing her eyes. The rest of the world begins to filter in: soft light from the viewscreen, the smell of the dog's breath, voices talking in the living area.

“He committed himself to a psychiatric facility. This is hardly _your_ fault.”

The clink of something being set down. “I can’t shake the feeling that everything is connected. I am the common denominator here, I only wish I could determine _why._ ”

“Be that as it may, correlation does not equal causation. A fact that a graduate of the Vulcan Science Academy would be familiar with.” A long pause. “Mikey, look at me. You have a tendency to blame yourself for matters well beyond your control. Wanting to understand your brother’s motives is one thing, but assuming your own guilt is coloring your investigation. Surely you can see the logic in that.”

Silence, then a deep sigh. “You’re right, of course. I just…” Another sigh, quieter, the rustle of movement. “I’m concerned for his wellbeing. The pace of our work frustrates me.”

“And here you are, venting your frustrations to a friend.” More rustling, this time rhythmic, the movement repetitive and deliberate. “You’re seeking a second opinion from a more objective pair of eyes. Most importantly, you haven’t complained once about my dunking.”

“The tea _was_ wonderful, even if your method of biscuit consumption remains decidedly less so.” Louder rustling, disrupting the rhythm. “Thank you, Philippa. This... helped.”

“Any time, and I do mean that, Number One.” Another clink. “Take care. All the best with your search.”

The doors whoosh open, then shut. The silence lingers before being broken by soft footsteps; Philippa’s head bobs into view, then the rest of her, upright and correct in her admiral’s uniform.

“I’ll have you know, I don’t usually wake up in a bed I don’t recognize until at least the third date.”

Philippa snorts, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. “Considering that I put you in said bed, I think you're forgiven.”

“What time is it?”

“Before you panic, I took the liberty of requesting a personal day on your behalf.” Philippa looks up. “Computer, display chronometer.”

 _1603_ blinks into view. Reno gapes at it. “ _Jesus._ ”

“Yeah, you knocked out pretty hard there. You were still asleep when I woke up. I hope you don’t mind my moving you, the couch is kind of my office these days.”

The memory flits back in bits and pieces: the strange rocking motion, the warmth, the voice telling her to go back to sleep. “You carried me?”

Philippa shrugs. “You looked like you needed the rest. It’s not exactly far.” There’s a glint in her eye as she adds, “I bet you could hear my whole conversation with Michael from over here.”

Reno silently reminds herself never to try and pull one over Georgiou. “Only the last bit. Would’ve removed myself from the situation, but your dog’s holding down the blanket.”

Philippa looks solemnly at said dog, who looks right back at her. “You’re right. What an astute observation. Truly astounding powers of deduction, except… you could have pulled back the other side of the blanket, right here.”

Reno groans. “I just woke up, cut me some slack here, for Christ’s sake.”

“Don’t particularly care for him, but for you, I’ll let it slide.” Philippa cards her fingers through Reno’s hair, slow and gentle, just like she did last night. “Did you sleep well? Any notable dreams?”

Reno can’t help but smile a little at the sensation, even as the dog rolls over and wriggles, paws flailing across her field of view. “I’m not really the dreaming kind, but if I were, I’m sure I’d’ve dreamed of you.”

The dog chooses that very moment to sneeze right in Reno’s face. Philippa cracks up, falling backwards across Reno in her mirth.

“Even Milky called bullshit on that, didn’t you, boy?” The dog looks far too pleased with itself, gazing lovingly at its master with what Reno swears is a shit-eating grin. Philippa looks up at Reno from where her head is pillowed on her belly. “I appreciate it, though. All the nachos you ate must be making you extra cheesy.”

Reno swats grumpily at her, but her heart is racing, her entire body acutely aware of the warmth and pressure of Philippa against her. “If I knew you were this mouthy first thing in the morning, I wouldn’t have slept over.”

“Aww, Milky, Commander Reno is mad at us.” The dog rolls its paws back under itself and looks up at Reno through its lashes, which shouldn’t even be a thing considering that it doesn’t really have lashes, but whatever. Of course Georgiou would have taught her dog to look sad on cue, in addition to being psychic and running on a treadmill. “I hope we haven’t put you off us for good?”

“Nah. Best I’ve slept in, you know what, I don’t even want to think about how long.”

Philippa nods, knowing. “That documentary really did the trick, huh?”

Reno sits up at that, Philippa’s pillow be damned, because, “You _planned_ that? You sly sonuvabitch!”

“ _Daughter_ of bitches, and they taught me everything they knew.” Philippa sits up, too, grinning, not looking the least bit repentant. “Like I said, I thought you could use the rest. I do actually like twentieth-century jazz, I just don’t need someone telling me how to enjoy something I already listen to.”

Reno shakes her head. “You are impossible.”

“And _you_ are a fun person to spend an evening with.” Philippa stands, holding out a hand to Reno. “I’d like to do it again, if the lady raises no objection?”

“Wow, you really are from pre-modern times.” Reno takes the hand and levies herself somewhat reluctantly out of the cloudlike bed. “No takebacks. I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow?”

Philippa nods. “We can talk future dinner plans then.” She reaches up, hesitates, then seems to commit to the action, gently smoothing Reno’s hair back into something vaguely resembling presentable. “Commander.”

“Admiral.” Reno nods, suddenly shy. She turns to leave with an awkward half-wave, feeling Philippa’s eyes on her all the way out the door.

Passing officers shoot curious looks at her sweatpant-clad self in the hallway, but Reno ignores them, her thoughts lingering on the feeling of Philippa’s fingers in her hair. On wine and comfort food and feeding each other nachos, then being carried to bed and tucked in like a toddler.

She flops down on her own bed and determines that, yeah, Georgiou’s is extra cushy. She wonders how that happened. Did Saru or Pike sanction this? Were admiralty given special allowances on starships?

What would it be like if she woke up, not to the dog, but to Philippa smiling up from the pillow next to her? Reno files the question away on the list of things she wants her to answer.

She picks up her PADD from where she left it on the nightstand. Flips through her notifications—nothing urgent or important, except for Chief’s approval of her personal day—and checks her messages, not-so-secretly hoping for something from Georgiou.

Nothing, but Reno reminds herself that she just spent the whole night in her quarters. And the evening leading up to that was pretty sweet, too.

Almost as an afterthought, she brushes the fingers that have touched Philippa’s lips over her own.

Lunch tomorrow, she decides, can’t come soon enough.

****

Except that lunch tomorrow never happens, because Reno is interrupted at her station by a blur of white and fluff and _screaming._

Seriously, the dog _will not shut up._ Heads are beginning to turn.

“What is it, boy—Milky! What is it, what’s going on?”

The dog barks frantically, runs toward the stairs, turns around and runs back and barks at her again. She takes a step forward. The dog wags his tail, repeating the same loop over and over.

“Do you want me to follow you?” The realization hits, then, her stomach dropping uneasily. “Is it Philippa? What’s wrong?”

The dog barks again, running up the stairs and waiting for her. She unhooks her tool belt and sprints after him, ignoring the questions shouted after her. Together, they race out of engineering, dodging sparks and people and spare parts.

The dog bounds ahead as soon as they reach a stretch of open hallway. Reno follows with her heart pounding in her throat.

“Come on, boy. Take me to her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN. I regret nothing.
> 
> Philippa piloting a shuttle through the Insari Asteroid Belt comes from nomisunrider's [Across the Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12761715/chapters/29114118), which is a) a work of art and iconic and legendary and b) the Milippa bible, but also c) has influenced how I write Philippa so, so much, because of how incredibly well she is written in that fic. I cannot recommend this enough, go read it and cry and then come back here and fanperson with me about it.
> 
> [Nasi kandar](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nasi_kandar) is delicious and the rest of the world is missing out. It's my personal headcanon that Philippa prefers it to [nasi lemak](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nasi_lemak), which is the more widely known Malaysian rice dish.
> 
> Reno was originally named Denise, but Tig Notaro apparently said "Can't we take it up a notch?" and suggested Jett. I decided then that Jett named herself and has a trans sister named Denise (Tig has a brother irl). It's Pride Month, fight me. Also [shrimp and oyster po'boys are probably Tig's favourite food](https://www.bonappetit.com/story/tig-notaro-poboys-mississippi-hometown-hero). I did _research_ for this chapter, you all.
> 
> As always, leave a comment or come yell at me on [tumblr](http://andunetir.tumblr.com/)!


	4. Strain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating, a whole week and a half early? Sounds fake, but okay.
> 
> Unbeta'd and unedited, so all mistakes are mine.

They end up aft of the ship, where most officers in Ops, Reno included, live. Could’ve walked here in the same amount of time, but apparently operating the turbolift is beyond the dog’s powers. Reno notes the fluffy monster’s fallibility with only the dimmest satisfaction as she chases after it.

They round the corner—and Reno stops short, eyes searching wildly for Milky. The dog has vanished into thin air right outside quarters she recognizes as Georgiou’s, both by the name display and by the mechanical humming that just about breaks through the soundproofing here.

Then the dog barks from _inside_ the wall. Reno follows the sound to a Jefferies tube opening, close to the ground and tight enough that even the dog has had to crouch to get in.

It appears to go on inside for a very long way.

Her throat goes dry. She feels her lungs tighten, not quite to the point of constriction, but enough that she almost gags. The thought of those walls around her, the increasing warmth as she approaches the belly of the ship… It reminds her too much of wriggling through the wreckage of _Hia_ for salvageable parts, inhaling in small gulps so she wouldn’t startle herself with the sound of her own breath.

Since coming on board this ship, she’s only had to slide a couple feet into the tubes to get at things that needed fixing. That, she can work with. This? This is her own personal brand of _fuck this shit_.

The dog crawls back out to circle around her concernedly. It licks her hands, its usual smile nowhere to be seen.

“I know, boy. I know.”

Just her luck that she’s only familiar with the layout of the saucer section. No point trying to navigate by nonexistent memory—if she’d brought her PADD along, she could’ve pulled up the ship’s blueprints, maybe find a different entry point to the same subsection of the tubes. She supposes she might snag one off a passing officer. But it’s the alpha shift on a weekday, the corridor utterly deserted.

She chews on the inside of her cheek. The cargo bay isn’t too far away, but borrowing a PADD there would require explaining the situation in front of multiple people, and she has a feeling Georgiou wouldn’t want everyone knowing her business. She can’t go back for her own PADD, either—they’ll ask why she ran out like that, and the dog will probably lose its tiny mind if she leaves.

She could wait here, hoping G will emerge on her own. She could short out the lights so some other poor sod in engineering has to come and fix them. She could pry up some panels and bang them together. She could scream. She could—

She could suck it up and get in the damn tube already.

The dog looks up at her with a mixture of sadness and confusion. It whines at her hesitation, its ears flicking nervously to and fro. Reno’s reminded of that night in the gym, finding Milky on her treadmill. She’d been so focused on herself that she hadn’t stopped to ask what Philippa was doing up so late, too.

And Burnham. Everyone who was anyone in Starfleet had heard of Burnham the mutineer and the death of a highly decorated captain. It was war propaganda, something Reno wouldn’t fully trust if her life depended on it—but then she’d been fished out of hell by Burnham herself and told that they’d reached an armistice with the Klingons, and she’d just kinda accepted that impossible shit could happen in ten months, eleven days.

Funny how a little clarity can burst your bubble. It’s like a dam breaking in her head, thoughts she hasn’t had the energy or headspace for gushing out in a panicked flow. The world begins to spin around her. She shuts her eyes, letting the _what_ s and _when_ s and _why_ s flash through her mind, unable to grasp for any one of them without being inundated by a slew of other alarming questions.

 _How_ has she lived on this ship for so long without even _beginning_ to ask about what happened while she was gone?

Something soft and fluffy brushes against her. When she ignores it, it nudges more insistently, then a paw bats at her with blunt claws.

She opens her eyes, slowly unclenching her fists. She can’t feel anything below the wrist. Her nails are short, but there are pink half-circles pressed deep into her palms, a stark contrast to her blanched knuckles.

The dog gently lifts her hand with its snout. It tilts its head back so her hand slides down and off, then repeats the process, stroking itself for her. Her fingers contract reflexively as pins and needles begin to prick under her skin, but the dog doesn’t even whimper as she clutches too tightly at its fur.

Calm returns in increments, and with it, her peripheral vision. The Jefferies tube is still there, waiting.

The dog pulls away to sit at her feet. He still isn’t smiling, but he wags his tail a little as he regards her with tilted head.

“You sure you aren’t psychic?” Damn dog is more human than Uine was, and Reno _married_ her.

Milky pads over to the tube again. She sighs at the sheer dumb faith the dog has in her raggedy self.

“Alright, you win. Let’s go get ourselves an admiral.”

With one last, bracing breath, Reno follows the dog into the hole.

****

The Jefferies tube turns out to not be as terrible as she feared. There are motion-activated lights—thank _Christ_ —and the dog gives her something to focus on, something alive and real and _moving._

The only things that moved on _Hia_ were the ground beneath her feet and, once she built them, the kids. As fond as she was of them, they were droids, designed to lift things and zap the hell out of intruders. They had no real personality. Technically, they weren’t even sentient.

Having a dog butt in her face isn’t exactly her idea of a good time, but his claws scratch irregularly against the metal, his panting occasionally disrupted by a sneeze. It’s enough to keep the walls from closing in around her. She pulls herself forward on elbows and belly and counts the panels they pass to distract herself.

Somewhere around panel 153, the dog wriggles, yelps, and sits up, his top half cut out view by the low ceiling. Reno cranes her neck to see that the tube widens and splits into four up ahead: left, right, up and down. She shoves the dog over and scrambles to pull herself upright.

The dog jostles for space, sticking his nose into the downward branch and pawing at the edge of the hole. Reno looks from him to the rungs set into the wall.

“She go down here, boy?” The dog barks an affirmative. “And you’re mad you can’t get to her, huh? Here’s some advice: next time, evolve yourself some opposable thumbs.”

The vertical tube is only a little wider than the horizontal one, but there wasn’t much left upright on _Hia_ after the crash. This is fine. She climbs easily, one hand after the other, the wall panels occasionally resounding as the dog continues to paw at them. She looks up and gives him a little wave.

“Sit. Stay. Good boy. Don’t break into Philippa’s quarters till I get back.”

The space she emerges into is a proper access conduit, big enough to sit up in comfortably. The tunnel continues in the same direction as the tube she and the dog just dragged themselves through. She follows it on hands and knees, the metal warmer to the touch here. The humming she heard outside Georgiou’s quarters is louder, too. She sketches the ship out in her head. Nowhere near the warp nacelles, so it must be the starboard impulse engine she’s hearing.

Apparently, the engine is closer than she thought, as the panels around her are now a slightly different color. She raps on one, hard. The resulting clang is pitched lower than tritanium. Osmium alloy, for better radiation shielding. She must be just a couple of decks above the reactors.

_What the hell is the admiral doing in here?_

Reno crawls on, heart beating a little faster. There’s no blood or ash she can see, so Philippa probably wasn’t injured when she came this way—but that’s an indicator of how she was, not how she will be when Reno finds her.

 _If_ she finds her. Her heart sinks as she turns a corner and sees the tunnel branching off on either side up ahead. There are countless rows of offshoots, like capillaries over the warm lungs of the ship. She’ll get to Georgiou if she’s determined enough, but how damn _long_ will it take?

She frowns, sitting up—and the light literally goes on over her head. These suckers are motion activated, aren’t they? All the admiral has to do is move, and Reno will know where she is.

She holds very still and waits for the lights to turn off again.

“Admiral Georgiou?” No response. “Where you at, G?”

Nothing, though she waits a good minute. “I need you to move. Can you do that for me? Just—wave a hand around, or something.”

Still nothing, so she keeps crawling, passing the first few offshoots of the tunnel. Waits again for the lights to go off.

“You know, you’re really pinching my balls here.” She frowns, squinting into the darkness. “Come on, I can’t find you unless you move.”

Nothing. Her heart sinks further, an uncomfortable swooping feeling. She shuffles forward.

“Philippa?” The tunnel extends far ahead; if she doesn’t figure out where the admiral is, she’ll have a very tough choice to make, between giving up or crawling for days through every square inch of these goddamn conduits. “I can’t see you, baby, you gotta give me a sign.”

The ease with which the endearment slips out is startling, but not as startling as the sound she thinks she hears. It’s soft, muffled—could it be a sob?

“Philippa?” No light, and no sound, either. She replays what she just said in her head. “Baby? Are you there?”

The sound this time is different—no louder, but a little more distinct. Reno has to remind herself to hold still, keep herself shrouded in darkness.

“You like it when I call you that, huh?” She would smile if she weren’t so worried about the woman who piloted her way through the deadliest asteroid belt in the galaxy being reduced to mere whimpers. “Listen to me. These lights turn on when you move. I need you to move, baby. Can you do that? Light the way for me, please?”

The silence that follows feels like it lasts all of ten months, eleven days. She opens her mouth to call out again, not really expecting a response—

A branch lights up, faint, several meters ahead. Reno rushes towards it, blinking away black spots as her own section of the tunnel lights up at her movement.

Reno follows the light down the offshoot, which splits again into a T-junction after several feet—and there is Philippa, just off to one side so she can’t be seen from the main conduit. She’s hugging her legs tightly to her chest. Dark, frightened eyes peek out over her knees.

A quick once-over reveals no signs of physical trauma, but the admiral looks like she’s been through hell and isn’t quite sure she came out the other side. A strange swell of emotion surges within Reno at the sight. She shoves it down. Now is not the time to deal with her own shit.

“Philippa?” She holds out a hand, slow and careful, like she would to a skittish cat. “Hey. What are you doing here, all by your lonesome?”

The admiral’s gaze flits from Reno’s hand to her face. She doesn’t move. Reno shuffles a little closer, talking in low, soothing tones.

“Bet it’s the impulse drive. Purrs real nice under you, right? I felt it in my knees all the way down here. Y’know, I was wondering why a bigshot like you had quarters so close to little old me. This is why, isn’t it? You wanted to be near the tubes.”

She touches Georgiou carefully, stroking light circles over the back of her hand before gently prying it loose. She’s been holding herself so tightly that the imprint of her hand is creased into her uniform jacket; she whimpers softly as Reno rubs the stiffness out of her fingers.

“I know how it feels. The ship can be so _loud_ sometimes, all these people moving around, taking up space. It’s nice to get away from it all. Maybe that’s why you disappeared on us last week. Struck out in your tin can like some old-timey cosmonaut, didn’t you?”

Philippa blinks, some of the fear leaving her eyes. She squeezes Reno’s hand.

“That’s it, baby. You just keep on breathing, in and out, nice and easy.” Philippa’s gaze fixes on Reno, her head lifting ever so slightly from behind her knees. “Hey, here’s a fact. Did you know electro-plasma _despises_ nachos? Found that out on my first day. Must’ve gotten carried away talking, because I went—” she demonstrates a flippant backhanded gesture with Philippa’s hand— “and knocked half my lunch into where I shouldn’t’ve. Whole engine was this close to blowing up in our faces. Chief made me purge it all by myself as atonement.”

She takes advantage of the movement to start manipulating Philippa’s elbow, one hand bending and unbending the joint, the other massaging the tension from the area. “And _that_ is why I only eat nachos in a bowl now. Can’t set a plate down on the edge of an impulse manifold, the flat bastards.”

Philippa makes a soft noise that might be the beginning of a laugh. Reno smiles at her, shifting her grip so she can get at Philippa’s upper arm and shoulder. “Whaddaya say you and I head down there someday? Look at the reactors, poke at the coils. We could watch the vents flap open and close over a nice picnic dinner. Maybe you’ll return that flux coupler so I can show you how to change out a response filter. Maybe you’ll even tell me what you stole it for in the first place.”

This turns out to be the wrong thing to say, as Philippa screws her eyes shut and presses her forehead to her knees. Reno massages Philippa’s shoulder with one hand, the thumb of the other rubbing across Philippa’s knuckles.

“Hey now, don’t make it bad. One of us has to be the strong one, and I’m too busy sitting still, looking pretty.”

Philippa doesn’t look up, but she does squeeze Reno’s hand again. Reno squeezes right back.

“I’m gonna take care of your other arm now, okay? Bet this one feels a lot better.” She lifts Philippa’s hand and waves it to and fro. “Yup, that’s one happy arm. I think it likes me. Gotta make the other one like me, too.”

Her jacket is already unzipped, so she just tugs the neckline of her shirt to one side, setting Philippa’s hand on her bare shoulder. Philippa’s fingers flex against her skin; the warmth and contact might help anchor her, show her Reno’s still here, isn’t going anywhere. She repeats the process on Philippa’s other arm, then tugs at her calves, stretching her legs out.

The admiral keeps her head down. Reno hesitates, unsure if she’s allowed to touch her face—but she _can_ guide Philippa’s hand to her own cheek.

Philippa does look up a little at that. She’s being uncharacteristically shy, sneaking little glances, averting her eyes as soon as Reno meets her gaze. Reno closes her own eyes with a sigh. Nuzzles into Philippa’s palm and lets Philippa look at her for as long as she wants.

The hand on Reno’s shoulder begins to move up her neck. Her skin tingles and thrills, but Reno forces herself to hold still as Philippa hesitantly slides her thumb along Reno’s jaw.

The thumb taps once, twice against her chin. She opens her eyes to find Philippa leaning in, inches away, a whole host of emotions flickering past before her expression settles into something like wonder.

There are tear tracks down her cheeks and a little snot pooled at the base of her nose. Makeup smooths over the pigmentation, but Reno can still see the wrinkles. She realizes, with fondness, that she’s beginning to recognize the constellations they form on Philippa’s face.

It’s a bit of a power trip, seeing the admiral trust her like this when she’s clearly feeling all kinds of vulnerable. Reno’s pretty sure her heart has collapsed within her thoracic cavity. Is she dead? Probably, but if this is how she goes, she can’t really complain.

Well—except for the whole Philippa-needs-help-right-now part of the deal. She blinks, grounding herself in Philippa’s hands.

“Hey, yourself.”

Philippa’s lips twitch. Reno knows she probably can’t manage a smile right now, but it’s nice to know that that’s probably what that was.

She covers Philippa’s other hand with her own, the combined warmth almost scalding against her neck. Philippa shifts a little so that Reno’s fingers slip into the spaces between her own.

“You wanna hold hands?” A small nod, and Reno tugs Philippa’s hands away from her so she can lace their fingers together properly. “There. You like that, baby?”

Philippa makes that sound again, a low whimper in the back of her throat. Reno grins. “Oh, you _do_ like when I call you that. I’m using this against you later.”

She pauses before adding, “Somehow, I doubt you’ll be complaining.”

This time, the whimper is more of a whine, Reno cackling at the weak glare Philippa levels at her. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll fight it out some other time.”

The silence that settles around them is comfortable, as warm as Philippa’s hands in her own. She wriggles into a more comfortable position in the cramped tunnel. Philippa rests her head on Reno’s shoulder, sighing a little as she settles against her side.

Reno barely dares to breathe, lest she disrupt this moment. The humming of the engine beneath them is hypnotic, the stillness in the air strangely calming. She thinks she could fall asleep like this. A furtive glance sideways tells her Philippa is already beating her to it, her entire body leaning drowsily into Reno.

A distant clang jolts them both upright. Philippa’s hands clamp viselike around Reno’s in shock; dread pools in the pit of Reno’s belly as her mind takes her, unbidden, back to bat’leths and bloodwine and a very unstable rock...

Something is moving through the conduit towards them. Something big and heavy and perhaps a little clumsy.

Philippa holds perfectly still, her eyes darting around in renewed terror. Reno inhales in short gulps to avoid making too much noise, though a part of her recognizes that there’s nothing on this ship that could pose a serious threat.

The big, heavy thing shuffles closer and closer. It sounds like it might be dragging something along with it— _its last kill,_ Reno’s mind supplies, though dead bodies and crawling don’t really work together, _shut up, brain_.

She inhales sharply as a head pops up at the end of the tunnel—and Captain Pike does a double take, clearly as startled as she is. His gaze softens as it sweeps over them. Reno suddenly realizes how they must look, sitting so close together with hands clasped in each others’ laps.

The captain rises a little on his knees and shrugs off a backpack, which must have been the cause of the dragging. He pushes it towards them with a small smile.

“Well, howdy there.”

Reno lets out a long breath. “Does _no one_ on this ship have _any idea_ how to _knock?_ ”

****

“How’d you find us in here?”

The captain shrugs the jacket off Philippa’s shoulders, holding it by the collar for Reno. “This is her favorite spot. We put a smudge of paint on the corner out there, helps us both remember which one to turn into.” He pauses, brow knitting. “How did _you_ find her?”

Reno eases Philippa’s arms out of the sleeves. “The lights turn on when you move. You mean she does this often?”

“Less nowadays than she used to, it’s been something like three weeks.” He folds the jacket neatly, setting it aside. “How’d you get her to move? She’s a statue when she’s like this, aren’t you, Philippa?”

He fishes a blanket out of the backpack. Reno works with him to drape it over Philippa’s shoulders.

“I called out to her.” She hesitates, remembering how Philippa responded to being called _baby_. “Guess I got lucky.”

Pike eyes her thoughtfully, but doesn’t push. He hands Philippa a goofy-looking plush horse. “Here’s your Foxtrot. Hold onto him while the commander and I get your feet, okay?”

Reno shuffles over so he can reach. “How long have you been doing this?” She gestures from the horse to his hands, tugging Philippa’s boot off and rolling her ankle around with practiced ease. “Looks like you came prepared.”

The captain sighs. “I was with the _Enterprise_ on a five-year mission, which was extended to keep us as far out of Klingon hands as possible. Once the war ended, Command gave us the all-clear to return.” He points Philippa’s toes and presses them down towards the ball of her foot. “We were on our way when a malfunction in the flux chillers forced us to drop out of warp. We intercepted a distress signal from an abandoned Klingon vessel. No life signs.”

He motions for Reno to do the same to the other foot as he continues, “We might have ignored it, if not for the message itself. It was hand-encrypted, the way old-timers like the admiral and I were taught at the Academy. No one outside of Starfleet ever uses it. That told us there were prisoners of war, Federation prisoners, on that ship. I decided we had better take a look inside.

“And a good thing we did. The Klingons left with whoever else they had locked up, but this one—” he points at Georgiou— “managed to break out of her cell and into the tubes. They must’ve looked for her, but the ship was hit, so I’m guessing she wasn’t a priority. Life support systems were failing. They thought they were leaving her to die.”

Reno looks from him to Philippa, who blinks solemnly over the toy horse’s head. “But she didn’t.”

“Scans showed more drugs than hemoglobin in her blood. Sedatives, suppressants, hallucinogens—you name it, they gave it to her.” He shakes his head. “We had no idea how long the ship was left abandoned. The irony is, those drugs kept her body in near-total shutdown, so she didn’t need as much as you or me to survive. Even managed to hack into a monitor so she could send up that signal.”

Philippa makes a small noise and reaches towards Pike. He wraps an arm around her, pulling her close. “Her vitals were so unstable, they didn’t even register as a life sign. I didn’t think _anyone_ could come back from what they did to her. You’re a fighter and then some, huh, Phil?”

Philippa nuzzles into his chest like a kitten. Reno watches how he rubs her arm, slow and soothing, clearly familiar with her proximity. She swallows hard. “And the Captain of the Year Award goes to…”

Pike tilts his head. “I can’t tell if you mean her or me.”

Reno juts her chin out at him. “You took care of her then, you’re still taking care of her now. Most wouldn’t bother.”

“ _Most_ wouldn’t offer to stay on a crashing ship and figure out how to perform a heart transplant, among other life-saving endeavors. Commander.”

They regard each other in silence, something unspoken passing between them.

Philippa holds out a hand towards Reno from under the blanket. The captain raises his eyebrows pointedly; Philippa hums, pleased, when Reno takes her hand between both of her own.

“She likes you.” Pike’s gaze is knowing, those baby blues piercing right through her. “It took hours before she let me touch her, days before the doctors could give her her hypos. Whenever anyone else on _Enterprise_ saw her like this, she just curled up and turned to living stone.”

Reno rubs small circles across Philippa’s wrist. “She’s come a long way, thanks to you.”

“Oh, you definitely have something to do with it.” He strokes Philippa’s hair, tucking flyaways behind her ear. “I could never get her to move until she’d calmed down. Even scared and confused, she must have known she wanted you to find her.”

He lets that sink in for a moment before lifting his arm from around Philippa. “Come on. Gotta go before she gets too comfy and falls asleep. Can you take this?”

Reno stuffs Georgiou’s jacket into the backpack. Pike puts her boots back on, then ties the blanket over the toy horse, securing it to her torso.

“Foxtrot’s all snug for the trail, now. You ready to gee up out of here?”

Reno snorts as she helps Philippa onto her hands and knees. “You can take the cowboy out of Texas, but you can’t take the cowboy out of the cowboy.”

“Hey now, I’ll have you know I’m from California.” Reno fixes him with a look, and he acquiesces, “I did have horses growing up, though. Foxtrot here is a distant relative of Tango.”

“Named after Tango City, Missouri or Tango, Vermont?”

“What?” Pike shoots her a curious look, moving into the lead. “Neither?”

“Good, because those don’t exist.”

The captain’s laugh echoes through the tunnel. Reno smiles at Philippa, gesturing for her to follow.

“I’ll be right behind you, I promise. Can’t get rid of me that easy.”

Philippa squeezes her hand, eyes wide and earnest. The toy horse-sized bundle wiggles comically as she crawls after Pike.

Back in the main conduit, Reno notices the smear of paint Pike talked about, in the top left corner of the panel next to the turn-in. She thinks about the captain crawling into the tubes with his backpack of supplies, again and again, as many times as it took for her to feel safe.

It’s good to know Georgiou has someone who cares enough about her to do this. Still, something churns strangely in Reno’s gut. She tells herself it’s the last of the nachos from dinner two nights ago, making their way down to her shitter. Best not to think too hard about these things.

As they approach the vertical tube, the faint sounds of barking begin to reach them. Pike hesitates, turning. “I should warn you, the admiral’s dog is waiting for us up there. He’s a big fella, but don’t let that deter you—”

“Yeah, he’s the one who brought me here. I got it.”

Pike shuts his mouth, then opens it again. “ _Milky_ brought you here?”

“Damn thing made me chase him all the way from engineering, hell yeah, he brought me here.” She shudders at the thought of those walls so close around her, the dog’s stupid butt in her face. “I’ve wriggled my way through enough wreckage to last a lifetime. I wouldn’t be down here if he hadn’t insisted.”

The captain is silent for a long moment. “If you’d told me you were claustrophobic, I would have led us the other way, the way I came. The conduit runs farther on that side and opens onto the catwalk. There’s only one short tube to navigate. We could still go back, if you prefer?”

Reno frowns, picturing the tunnel and catwalk relative to the engine. “Wouldn’t that take four, five times as long to get back to her quarters?” She shakes her head. “We’re already here. I’ll deal, no mucho, muchacho.”

Philippa makes a distressed noise and rocks back onto her heels to sign at Reno. She looks sad rather than afraid, so Reno gently stops her, taking Philippa’s hands in her own.

“Milky’s gonna have a stroke if we don’t get you back to him soon. Whatever it is can wait until we’re up there, yeah?”

Philippa pulls free, signing something else, insistent. Reno shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re saying. I need the UT. It’ll pick you up as soon as we’re back in civilization, okay?” She glances over Philippa’s shoulder at the captain. “Make sure she gets out alright.”

Pike looks like he wants to argue, but he just nods instead. “She’s in good hands.” He begins to turn, then stops, considering her. “I can see why the dog came for you. You’re a good person, Jett Reno.”

The words infuse her with warmth. He flashes her a smile before disappearing into the tube.

Philippa frowns at Reno, looking a little more grounded than she was when Reno first found her. Reno nudges her after the captain. “Go on, now.”

When Philippa doesn’t move, she reaches up to cup the admiral’s face. Philippa tilts her head into the touch with a sigh. “I’ll be okay, G. Did it once, didn’t I?”

She rubs her thumb lightly over Philippa’s cheekbone, soothing. Philippa nods—then presses a kiss against Reno’s palm before pulling away.

Reno watches her go, heart stuttering, breath caught in her throat. Her hand feels like it’s on fire and all she can think is that she wants to feel Philippa do that again.

From somewhere above her, Pike’s voice calls out, “Reno? You doing okay?”

She shakes out her hand and crawls towards the tube. Captain, admiral and dog are all looking down questioningly; she waves at them as she climbs.

“Never better, caballero. Get your ass in gear, traffic jams make me an unhappy engineer.”

Pike’s head disappears from the hole. She hears the slither of cloth on metal, interspersed with clunks as he presumably bumps into the walls. Does the man even fit in there? That much beefcake, squeezed through a tube—sounds like a big, thick, juicy sausage. Reno’s pescatarian, thank you very much.

She snorts at the crude metaphor, resolving to tell Georgiou sometime. She seems like someone who would appreciate a dirty joke.

The dog is waiting at the top to cover her face with slobber. Reno wrinkles her nose and shoves him into the tube after Philippa’s receding boots. “Were you just sitting here the whole time? You could’ve at least done the assigned reading. Jeez.”

She hears Pike chuckle somewhere down the line. It makes the tube feel wider; Reno tries to convince herself that this is the breezeway connecting her old home to the chop shop, where she cut her teeth cobbling together junked hoverbikes. Any minute now, she’ll emerge into the warm, bustling space, and Denise’s mom will pull her in for a noogie.

Any minute now.

Any minute.

Any… minute…

(Oh God, she can’t do this for much longer.)

After a small eternity, during which time Reno’s pretty sure she uses up two of her nine lives, the dog yelps, wriggles, and pops out of the tube in front of her. He’s immediately replaced by Pike, offering her both his hands.

“Wanna get the hell outta there?”

Reno grasps his forearms without hesitation. “ _Christ_ yes.”

The captain pulls her out and sets her on her feet in one smooth motion. She sways a little against him, and Philippa is at her side in an instant, wrapping an arm around her waist.

The warmth of their bodies makes her feel like she’s boiling in her uniform. Reno pulls away with a slight pang at the loss of Philippa’s touch.

“Easy, sirs, don’t get your Starfleet-issue undergarments in a twist.”

The dog whines for attention, nuzzling at Philippa’s legs. She strokes his head with one hand and signs at Reno with the other.

“Are you okay?”

Reno stares at her for a second before bursting into laughter. Philippa shares a perplexed look with Pike; the dog starts running around in circles and barking and oh God, if this is how Reno dies, she wants a refund.

“The UT,” she coughs out as she begins to calm down, “sounds _nothing_ like your voice. And you still have a horse tied to your chest. Also, that dog is psychic.”

The captain looks down at Milky, then back up at Georgiou. “You know, that would explain a lot. Admiral, if your canine companion possesses telepathic abilities, you’ll have violated General Order 19. And possibly General Order One, depending on whether or not Milky is secretly from another system.”

Philippa throws up her hands in exasperation. Reno hiccups up one last laugh as she stalks haughtily into her quarters, toy horse and all.

Pike follows, grinning. “You know, violating the fundamental principles of Starfleet is an awful lot of paperwork. You sure you don’t want the rest of the day off to finish it?” Philippa flips him the bird behind her back. “Yup, thought so. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He hands Philippa the backpack. “Replicate something for yourself and take care now, mmkay?” Philippa responds by wrapping her arms around his waist, and he chuckles, hugging her back.

“Alright, I’m out. Have a good day.” He turns to Reno. “Join me for lunch? I’ll page Commander Za’amah, let them know you were called away for an emergency and will be back after your break.”

Reno looks from him to Philippa, who has untied the blanket and is now hugging the toy horse to her chest. “You gonna be okay?” Philippa nods. “No more hiding away? Because, let me tell you, I am _not_ crawling back in that hole.” Philippa shakes her head, looking vaguely apologetic over Foxtrot’s head. “You’ll page us if you need anything?”

Philippa nods again. “Okay then. Make sure you eat something.”

Philippa lets go of Foxtrot to take Reno’s hand. Squeezes, then raises it to her cheek, rubbing against it like a cat. Reno feels her face grow warm. The back of her hand is electric, every nerve ending a live wire under Philippa’s touch. It’s so _much_ —yet Reno finds herself inexplicably wanting _more._

Just as the contact becomes too much to bear, Philippa releases her hand with a small smile. Waves, as Reno turns to go, Pike looking up from where he’s crouched on the floor petting a sprawled-out Milky.

“Ready?”

Reno scratches the dog behind his ears. “Let’s get out of the admiral’s hair. Lunch on Monday?” she says to Georgiou, who gives her a thumbs up. “You owe me. Don’t forget the nachos or I’m bribing your dog to go on strike.”

Pike shoots her an amused look as they head out together. “Nachos?”

Reno doesn’t let herself look back as the doors shut behind them. “With extra everything. They’re freaking delicious.”

“I have to say, that doesn’t sound healthy.”

“Yeah, not all of us can survive on salad, Mister Six-Pack.”

The captain coughs around what sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “Touché.”

They step into the turbolift. Reno gnaws at a hangnail, eyeing him sideways.

“If the psychic dog didn’t fetch you, how’d you know she was there?”

Pike clasps his hands behind his back, his command face back on. “Let’s just say we learned the hard way that she won’t come out unless someone she trusts goes to get her. Happened one too many times on _Enterprise_. I suggested having the computer notify me every time she entered the tubes, unless she asked it not to. She agreed.”

“Couldn’t she ask it not to tell you, then go in there?”

The doors open, the sounds of laughter and chatter rushing in from the mess. Pike nods politely to passing officers as they walk. “Hypothetically? Of course. But that crazy concoction of drugs they had her on… You have to understand, she took a mek’leth to the chest before they locked her up. And when we found her—that was nearly a _year_ later. A year of being pumped full of God knows what, and that’s _after_ having a lung collapse and weaken airflow to the brain.”

He shakes his head. “The Philippa Georgiou we found that day—I barely even knew she was _human._ Her recovery’s been nothing short of miraculous, but there’s some damage there that can’t be undone. She pulls back deep inside her head when these lapses happen. Can barely form a coherent thought.”

Reno steps in front of him, stopping them both. “You’re telling me she was _stabbed_ in the _chest?_ Why the _fuck_ did no one look for her sooner?”

She probably shouldn’t be cursing at the captain, but she can feel the anger surging beneath her skin. She’s dangerous like this—point her at Georgiou’s crew, at Command, at someone who looks at her funny in the mess, and they’re going to have a capital-S Situation.

So she directs her anger at Pike, and trusts him to know he’s just a stand-in for all the people and Klingons she can’t rip apart limb from limb.

“What I heard was, they were trying to beam her out of there, but they couldn’t lock onto her life sign.” He raises his hands, placating. “Her first officer was right there when it happened. She thought she had died, too. Really beat herself up about it.”

Reno remembers the war propaganda, the way Philippa had called Burnham _Number One._ She frowns. She and Michael are going to have to sit down sometime.

Pike grasps her upper arm hesitantly, like he’s a little scared she’ll slap him for it. “It wasn’t their fault, Reno.”

“Yeah.” She shakes his hand off, but lightly, so he’ll know she isn’t upset at him. “Well, she’s here now. Dog and all.”

Pike steers them towards the replicators. “I thought she was joking when she told me Command had approved Milky’s transport. Two days later, we beamed him on board.”

“Damn thing keeps showing up when I least expect him to.” Reno pauses to give the computer her order, noting the huge burger that seems much more fitting for someone of Pike’s build. “If he takes over the captain’s chair, you let me know so I can hop the first shuttle planetside.”

Pike chuckles. “I’ll guard it with my life.”

They collect their food and sit down at an empty table, the bridge crew not quite yet on break. Pike raises an eyebrow when she dips her fries in her smoothie, but doesn’t comment.

“So, how’d you and Admiral Georgiou get acquainted?”

Reno considers him. “Would you believe me if I said she stole something from engineering?”

“That... actually sounds just like her.” He shakes his head, eyes twinkling. “We were at the Academy together. Whenever us underclassmen got invited to things, she was there keeping everyone on their toes. Shenanigans ensued.”

Reno thinks about the two of them living out their young, wild days together, the way Philippa had clearly been comfortable around him in the tunnel. The gut-churning feeling returns. “You two were close, huh?”

Pike shrugs. “She was a friend of a friend, never really saw her outside of parties. We ran into each other a couple times after graduation. That’s about it.”

“Uh huh.” Reno pops another fry into her mouth.

Pike fixes her with a look. “We were never together, if that’s what you’re asking. Don’t get me wrong, Philippa’s an incredible person, and I’ve appreciated getting to know her better these last few months. But I’m not what she’s looking for. Never have been.”

He holds her gaze. Either he’s the best damn liar Reno’s ever met, or he genuinely believes what he’s saying. She takes another bite of her taco while she thinks.

“What do you think she’s looking for, then?”

Pike’s gaze softens. He toys absently with his napkin as he says, “You know, I don’t think she’s looking at all.”

“Oh?”

Pike smiles, conspiratorial. “She’s already found what she wants.”

****

“Smashed avocado on toast, drizzle with balsamic, and gimme some greens on the side.”

She stares at the air above her plate as it wiggles, carbohydrates and fats resequencing themselves into something of significant nutritional value. Her head is throbbing. Almost like she got bumped by a comet on its way to the sun.

Or, y’know, stared at the ceiling all night trying and failing to sleep. And the night before that. And the night before that one, too.

She couldn't stop thinking about Philippa, curled up and afraid. Philippa, letting Reno touch her, resting her head on Reno's shoulder.

Philippa, whimpering when Reno called her _baby._ Pike's words played on a loop in her head: _She's already found what she wants._

The replicator beeps. She shakes off her thoughts and collects her food.

She heads toward the bridge crew’s table, stifling a yawn—and her tray is whisked out of her grasp, a hand on her shoulder neatly turning her around and pushing her into a chair.

She blinks. The tray reappears in front of her.

“No nachos today?” Philippa slides into the seat across from her, grinning. “Shouldn’t you be displaying symptoms of withdrawal by now?”

“Maybe I had some while you weren’t looking.” Reno takes her in: perfectly crisp uniform, neat ponytail, eyes crinkled with amusement. No sign of the haunted look Philippa sported the last time she saw her, the sadness, the fear. Even her wrinkles seem to have receded into her face.

The cognitive dissonance is jarring. She looks at this confident, capable woman and wonders where the person who clutched Reno’s hand like a lifeline went.

“Hmm. And here I was, thinking there was still hope for you.”

Reno steals a grape off the admiral's fruit salad. “Sorry to disappoint. Or, not sorry, because you're the one who was supposed to get nachos.” She sucks it into her mouth with a soft _pop._ “This is on you.” _  
_

Philippa tsks. “So shameless. You’ve got guts, Commander.”

They sit in silence for a little while, regarding each other.

Philippa holds out a hand, palm up, inviting. Reno takes it, because apparently this is a thing they do now. She didn’t realize she was tense until she feels herself relaxing, satisfied that whatever happened between them in the tunnel is not going to go ignored.

Without breaking eye contact, Philippa lifts Reno’s hand to her lips. An otherwise chaste gesture, but for the banked heat that steals into Philippa's expression, something hungry about the way she looks at Reno.

Reno swallows hard. Philippa’s gaze flicks briefly down, and _whoa,_ Reno can feel the heat scorching her cheeks as Philippa mouths at her knuckles.

She's going to lose her mind if she doesn’t say something. She clears her throat. “So, uh, how’d your weekend go?”

Philippa blinks, expression rapidly clearing. “Oh, you know, paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. And the second half of that stellar formation vid, which you hold in such disdain.”

“And some Pinot noir?”

Philippa shoots her a distinctly unimpressed look. “I’m not an animal, Reno.”

“I can’t believe you give me shit for the nachos when you’re clearly just as addicted to wine.”

“Well, I helped fuel your addiction, remember? So you should help fuel mine.” She turns Reno’s hand over, fingernails scratching lightly over her palm. “Come by for a drink tonight? Say, 2100?”

Reno opens her mouth to say yes, but hesitates. “You aren’t sick of me yet?”

“No, of course not. You’re wonderful company.” Philippa studies her face, gaze gone sharp. “I understand if you want to spend your evening elsewhere, but if you think this is because of what happened last week—”

Reno shakes her head. “You’re not the type. It’s just—I don’t—”

She knows what she wants to say—she _wants_ to say it, but the words refuse to come out. Philippa watches for a moment longer before waving a hand to cut her off, eyes soft and sad, but not incriminating.

“Tell you what. I’m going to be in my quarters at 2100 with a delectable Merlot, and you’re welcome to stop by at any point, if you like.” A pause. “Milky will be there too, of course.”

Reno looks down at the admiral’s feet, suddenly aware of the lack of fluffy white dog. “Yeah, where is the dumbass? Thought you two were joined at the femur.”

“He had some wine, too. He’s still sleeping off his hangover.” Reno must look as shocked as she feels, because Philippa hastens to add, “Dog wine! Completely non-alcoholic and made of canine-friendly ingredients. It’s called ‘Chardognay.’”

Reno pulls away from Philippa just so she can facepalm with both hands. “ _Christ,_ G, maybe lead with that next time?”

“And miss the look on your face? No, thanks.” Philippa grins impishly. “Alright, come on. Joann and Keyla have been trying to wave us over for five whole minutes.”

Reno stands, following her lead… and stops, frowning. “I was already headed over when you stopped me. Did you—was there something else you wanted to say?”

Surprise flickers across Philippa’s face. She opens her mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again. “I—no. I just wanted to invite you over tonight without everyone listening in.”

"You sure?" Seeing her hesitation, Reno reaches for her hands, lacing their fingers together the way she did in the tunnel. “Hey. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

Philippa shakes her head, stubborn as anything. “No, I want to talk, it's just. Um.” She sighs. "It's hard. I... may have to sit on this one for a little while longer."

Now, _this_ is the person who clutched at Reno’s hand like a lifeline. Reno thinks, with a pang, that this is why Command types get paid the big bucks: they learn to bury themselves so deep inside that their crew only ever sees the shiny veneer.

Philippa’s brow is furrowed in thought. Reno begins to reach up to smooth it out, realizing belatedly that she can’t, because she’s still holding Philippa’s hands. “Captain Pike ran me through what happened to you during the war. I could see you trusted me, back there. You take all the time you need. I know you'll find the words eventually.”

Philippa is quiet, expression inscrutable. “I want to say thank you, at least. It means a lot to me that you came, and even more that you stayed.”

Reno squeezes her hands. “You’re welcome. Just maybe teach your psychic dog to use the turbolift next time.”

“I'll put it on my to-do list.” Philippa lets go, smiling, back to sunshine and rainbows like none of this conversation ever happened. “Now, Joann and Keyla?”

“Yup. Big kid table, here we come.”

Philippa snorts, picking up her tray. “Is that what you call it? I’ve always thought of it as Rivendell.” Clocking Reno’s confusion, she explains, “The Last Homely House? It’s where the Fellowship of the Ring was formed.”

Reno groans. “Space, jazz, _and_ Old Earth stories? You _nerd._ ” Philippa throws her an amused glance over her shoulder. “As long as you don’t break those books out tonight. One nerd and her psychic dog are about as much as I can take under the influence.”

Philippa doesn’t immediately respond, but Reno would bet her left kidney there’s a smile on her face. “Oh, splendid. I’ll dress Milky up for the occasion.”

“Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?” asks Detmer, looking up as they approach. Reno plops herself down opposite her.

“The admiral’s threatening to put her dog in a costume.”

“Awww, which one?”

Reno stares at her. “There are _multiple?_ ”

As Detmer launches into a description of each incredibly nerdy outfit the dog apparently owns, Reno catches Philippa’s eye. She’s sat herself down on the other end of the table, next to Burnham, who is having some kind of verbal sparring match with Saru.

Philippa winks before turning back to the conversation. Reno watches her laugh at something Airiam says, then add her own two cents, gesturing animatedly with her spoon.

She’ll have to look out for this one. How the admiral manages to keep surprising her, Reno doesn’t know.

“—might be the Renaissance-inspired one, with the puffed sleeves and breeches.”

Reno’s head whips back to Detmer, horrified. “The _dog_ has a _Renaissance outfit?_ Then what the hell does Georgiou have for _herself?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're playing real fast and loose with the timeline here, folks. Also, the dimensions of a Crossfield-class vessel.
> 
> General Order 19 taken from [here.](https://schweinsteigers-mannschaft.tumblr.com/post/87343496250)
> 
> [Chardognay is a real thing that exists!](https://www.thrillist.com/news/nation/dog-wines-from-apollo-peak-include-chardognay-and-zinfantail) Inspiration for Georgiou's taste in wine was taken from Michelle Yeoh's insta.
> 
> My personal headcanon is that the universal translator is activated in all the main areas of the ship (bridge, labs, corridors, mess, etc.), but you have to have a PADD on you for the translation matrix to work in less populated areas, like within personal quarters or the Jefferies tubes. The sheer amount of power you'd need to keep it on standby otherwise just doesn't make sense—they can redirect it to the engines and weapons instead. So, since Pike presumably didn't bring his PADD along and Reno obviously doesn't have one on her, the UT couldn't translate Philippa's signing.
> 
> I will now be taking suggestions as to what accent the UT gave Philippa when she signed. Bonus points if it's a) utterly absurd and b) something Reno can repeatedly mock her for.
> 
> As always, leave a comment or come yell at me on [tumblr](http://andunetir.tumblr.com/)!


	5. Acceleration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the nebulous time before, during and after 2x04. Spoiler-heavy. Unbeta'd and unedited; all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Content warnings for trauma, unsafe medical practices, and near-death experiences. Basically, everything that happened to Tilly and Saru in 2x04 is addressed here.

The dog is dressed in a full tunic-and-cloak ensemble. A quiver is strapped to his back, a toy bow in his mouth. He cocks his head, fluffy white ears poking comically out from beneath a long blonde wig.

“No,” says Reno, and turns to leave.

“No!” A patter of footsteps, and then a hand grabs Reno and tugs her back into the quarters.

The doors whoosh shut behind them. Reno looks from Philippa to the fingers encircling her wrist; Philippa’s grip loosens, hand sliding down into Reno’s.

“You just got here, you can’t leave until you’ve had some wine.” She leads Reno to the sofa, passing the long dining table, which is still covered in cloth. Reno notes that the suspicious lumps comprising the secret project have coalesced into a single, large and extra-suspicious lump. “Come, sit. Tell me about your day.”

The sleek stem of a wine glass replaces the warmth of Philippa’s hand in hers. Philippa tucks her feet up under herself, leaning into the cushions a polite distance away. It’s sweet, in a way—the old-timey gentleman strikes again—but Reno finds herself longing to push the boundary, if only to see what Philippa will do.

But she doesn’t. Something changed between them in the tubes, for better or for worse, and Reno can feel something delicate hanging in the balance. This is the one good thing to happen to her since she got the chief engineering position on _Hiawatha_. She won’t ruin it for herself.

So, she stays in her own corner of the couch. If restraint is what Philippa wants, it’s what Reno will give her.

“Eh, same old, same old. Chief wasn’t too happy about me checking out on Friday, but I made up for it by swapping all the fluid in the turboshafts. Put in a sweet little cocktail I tweaked from the standard mixture. It helps take more strain off the inertial dampeners.”

Philippa raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? How did you come up with it?”

“Would you believe me if I told you nachos were involved?”

The admiral shakes her head. She takes a long drag of wine, then leans over, so casually that Reno doesn’t realize what she’s doing until she’s already lying across Reno’s lap. “Do the jalapeños help kickstart your thought process? You seem to derive inspiration exclusively from that damn dish.”

So much for _restraint._ It takes a moment for the words to make sense, between Reno’s heart accelerating beyond the legal speed limit and the gentle weight of Philippa’s head across her thighs. Judging by the way the corner of Philippa’s mouth quirks up, Reno’s guessing she knows exactly what she’s doing to her.

“You’re one to talk. All those tannins in the wine sharpen your tongue, haven’t you heard?”

Philippa lifts her glass, conceding. “To addictions. May they fuel us for as long as we continue fueling them.”

Reno clinks her glass against Philippa’s. “To fueling each other’s addictions. Penchant for canine dress-up excluded.”

“You really don’t like him, do you?”

Reno snorts around her mouthful of wine. “He doesn’t look comfortable. I’m concerned for his wellbeing, G, stop trying to paint me as the villain here.”

Philippa leans up on her elbows to drink, bringing her closer to Reno. Reno finds herself tracing the lines on her face, cataloguing, remembering.

“If you insist. Milky!” The dog putters over, bow abandoned in favor of a tennis ball, wig slightly askew. Philippa grins up at Reno as she settles back in her lap. “Go on, then. Undress him if you want.”

“I would, but _somebody_ is holding me down.” Philippa shrugs as if to say _not my problem;_ Reno acquiesces with a dramatic huff, leaning forward as far as she can without smothering Philippa.

As she tugs the wig off Milky’s head, she’s acutely aware of their closeness, the heat that pools between their bodies despite the slight cushion of air in between. Philippa’s hand brushes against her chest; accidental, or perhaps calculated, the admiral trying to gauge Reno’s response.

The clasp of Milky’s cloak hovers just out of reach. Reno hesitates before deciding that two can play at this game.

“Turn your head for a sec?” If Philippa is confused, she doesn’t voice it, the pressure across Reno’s thighs shifting as she moves. Reno leans even farther forward. The clasp comes undone in her hand, but she barely clocks the slither of cloth falling off the dog’s back.

The thing is, she can _feel_ Philippa’s hair against her stomach. Her shirt must’ve ridden up a little; the side of Philippa’s head curves warm and solid against her skin, soft strands tickling her with every breath.

Philippa remains still and quiet, as if she, like Reno, is acutely aware of this delicate thing between them. They’re going to have to talk about it—as soon as this ends, probably—but, for now, it continues to tease them, just out of Reno’s reach.

She leans back, the moment breaking like a diver surfacing from the deep. Her heart thumps in her ears. She takes a fortifying swig of wine before saying, “Now that’s what you call an improvement.”

When she dares to look down again, there’s a slight flush across Philippa’s cheeks. Reno supposes she could blame the wine—but then Philippa sits up, setting her glass on the floor.

“If you’re going to do something, see it through.” She wraps an arm around Reno’s shoulders. “Brace me.”

Reno is helpless to do anything but obey, the weight across her shoulders increasing as Philippa leans out sideways. Her arm wraps reflexively around Philippa’s back, feeling the flex of muscle as Philippa strains to unbuckle the quiver. Reno watches her fingers search along a seam. A hidden zipper turns out to run the length of the tunic, which Philippa undoes, her shirt tugging up and out from under Reno’s forearm with the effort. 

The sensation of bare skin against hers is maddening. Reno can feel where the taut flesh of Philippa’s back gives way to softer fatty tissue at her waist, her hip jutting into the side of Reno’s palm, the hint of a rib just above her thumb. If there was a boundary before, it’s been blasted out the airlock. Philippa pulls back from the dog and suddenly she’s leaning into Reno, the line of contact across Reno’s shoulders and down her arm burning as red-hot as her face feels.

The dog drops his ball in confusion as his clothes puddle at his paws. He looks at his owner, then at Reno, then steps out of the costume and pads off to do whatever it is he does when he isn’t being a psychic nuisance. Reno distantly registers his departure as Philippa’s eyes meet hers.

The air seems to thicken around them, so charged that Reno can almost smell rain. Philippa’s eyes flicker briefly to her lips. For a moment, that banked heat from their conversation at lunch steals back into her gaze—and then she’s pulling away, expression unreadable as she moves to sit upright.

They drink in silence for a little while, Philippa retrieving her glass from the floor. She’s put some distance between them, and yet—their shoulders are almost touching, knees this short of knocking together. As if Philippa knew she should go back to the way they were before, but couldn’t quite bring herself to move away.

Reno swirls the last of her wine around. She supposes Philippa made the last move; it falls on her to do this, though it could so easily turn awkward, and not in the way she enjoys. She sets the glass on the coffee table with a sigh. “We should, uh. Talk about this, huh.”

Philippa turns to face her, something like caution in her eyes. “We’ve been dancing around each other for awhile, now.” A pause. “I know what I want. I—think I’ve been forthright with my intentions.”

The lapse into formality might just be a nervous tic, but it makes Reno stiffen all the same. “I—yeah. Um.” She crosses her arms. “Just in case, you wanna run a refresher course for the folks in back?”

Philippa takes a moment to drain her glass and set it down next to Reno’s, throat bobbing in a very distracting way. Reno doesn’t look away in time before she turns back. Her gaze locks on Reno’s, holding her there.

“The year I spent with the Klingons, the war… it took more out of me than I’ll ever get back.” She bites her lip. “I’m not—I can’t be the person I once was. I’m old. I’m tired. My brain and body fail me sometimes. There are days when I can’t even remember my own name.”

Reno can’t help but reach for her hand at that, squeezing lightly, just like she did in the tunnel. Philippa flashes her a small smile as she squeezes back. “You look at me and see all that I am, never—never what I was. What I’m not. You make me laugh. I knew from our first meeting that I would like you, and you’ve since proven that point again and again.”

Reno realizes, with a pang, that _this_ is the delicate thing between them—and Philippa is placing it right in her hands, no hesitation, no doubt. Never mind that said hands are rough and calloused from years of metal and heat.

It’s a helluva power trip. She runs her thumb over Philippa’s knuckles, silently encouraging her.

“You challenge and intrigue me, and I—” Philippa sucks in a sharp breath, her next words coming out in a shaky exhale. “I can’t help wanting you. I know I’m not—what I could be. But, if you’ll have me… I’d like to have you, too, in whatever ways you’ll give me.”

It’s beautiful— _she’s_ beautiful, a fact Reno has long accepted, yet it somehow manages to kick the bottom right out of her stomach. She reaches up to wipe at Philippa’s eyes. The admiral startles slightly, as if she hadn’t noticed the tears pooling.

The magnitude of what Philippa has just given her is stunning. Reno has never been good with words, much less in the face of Philippa’s eloquence. But Philippa has just bared her soul to her. She won’t wait for a response—she can’t, she shouldn’t—though Reno doesn’t know how on Earth she could ever put all that she’s feeling right now into coherent sentences.

Her entire being feels like she’s glowing. It does hurt, hearing Philippa talk about herself as if she’s somehow less than what Reno deserves—if anything, it’s the other way around, though Reno has a feeling the admiral would fight her if she voiced that. But the hurt is superseded by the thrill and affection that rushes up at the prospect of calling Philippa _hers._

Wordlessly, she lifts Philippa’s hand to her lips. Holds her gaze as she teases at the webbing between her fingers, tracing a path across her knuckles with her breath.

It’s not a reply—it’s not enough of one, but it’s something that Reno knows won’t hurt. And Philippa has been so badly hurt, this last year and change, that the slightest misstep now might send her spiraling.

So, she takes her time to gather her thoughts, pressing slow kisses to the back of Philippa’s wrist. Attempts to compose something worthy of the woman who is looking at her like the center of her very own star system.

“Y’know, there’s not too much left in this old bag of bones, either,” she quips gently. “People don’t usually like me. I’m a desert. Dry as hell and difficult to navigate.”

Not the greatest metaphor, but Philippa chuckles softly, so it’s done what she wanted it to. She forges on, “You always find me. Not like—I’m not lost, or anything, God forbid, had enough of that on the rock—but you always know where I’m coming from, and you meet me there. You keep me on my toes. I never know what you’re gonna do next.”

The uncertainty on Philippa’s face fades, replaced by fondness. Reno squeezes her hand. “You remind me of all the reasons I decided to go to space. All the good things in the world that no war or Klingons can take away.”

Almost on a whim, she adds, “I don’t have a long, pretty speech for you. You stole that, you bastard.”

Philippa rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, so Reno figures she’s not going to get kicked out of her quarters or anything. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I want you, too. All of you. As long as you know that every time you forget your name, I’m gonna try and convince you that it’s Cutiepie Buttnuggetface.”

There’s a second of tense silence before Philippa breaks, her laughter sounding more relieved than anything. “Dare I ask what inspired ‘Buttnuggetface’?”

“You’re cute as a buttnugget, and your face is included in that assessment.” Reno feels a grin spreading across her own face at the sight of a happy Philippa, at the knowledge that she did that, made the furrow in her brow go away. “I will accept no criticism.”

“Wasn’t going to.” Philippa tucks Reno’s hand under her chin, which Reno decides is the most adorable thing in the universe since the invention of tribbles. “I think I like being your Cutiepie Buttnuggetface. Even if a part of me is hurling at how utterly disgusting we are right now.”

Reno shakes her head. “The absolute worst.”

“Terrible.”

“Horrible.”

“Vegetable.”

Reno shoots her an unimpressed look, though she knows it’s ruined by her grin, her heart soaring right out of her chest. “See, this is why you’re a buttnugget. Graduated with highest honors from Starfleet Academy, and all you can think of is insulting a bunch of plants.”

Philippa snorts. “Graduated _twice_ with highest honors from Starfleet Academy, thank you very much.”

“Wait. What?”

“Yeah.” At Reno’s questioning look, she elaborates, “I started out in sciences, but my advisor suggested that I switch to ops, because I was good at it. So I did. A few years after graduation, I decided to go back to school and finish my original degree in astrophysics.”

She shouldn’t stare—they just had a whole capital-T Thing, and she’s ruining it—but the incredulity rises before she can quash it. “Your degree is _actually_ in astrophysics? Oh my _God._ ”

Philippa huffs, indignant. “What’s wrong with astrophysics?”

“Nothing, except now I know you’re a _nerd_ nerd.” Philippa pouts, pulling away from Reno; Reno can’t help laughing at her petulance, reaching for Philippa and tugging her into her arms. “No, no, it’s cute. Really. You have a degree in astrophysics and you still watch documentaries made for plebs like me. You must have _so_ many snarky opinions.”

Philippa surrenders to the hug with a sigh. “You’re never going to stop making fun of me, are you.”

“ _Christ_ no. The opportunities are endless.” She pulls back to look at Philippa, subtly checking for signs of genuine annoyance or hurt and, thankfully, finding none. “I didn’t know you went back to school, though. That’s cool. What made you change your mind?”

 _That_ evokes the brief flicker of pain Reno had hoped to avoid. She opens her mouth to backtrack, but Philippa catches her, shaking her head.

“It’s alright.” Reno frowns. “No, really. I was the tactical officer on board _Yeager_ , which was more tank than starship. We saw a lot of combat. I had one battle too many and decided I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life firing torpedoes.”

She draws in a deep, shuddering breath. “The truth is, my advisor was right. I was good at my job. _Too_ good. All that death and devastation, caused by my own hand… I knew I couldn’t live with myself if I stayed at it.”

Reno is quiet, processing this information. It makes sense, given what she knows of Philippa’s professional history: the tales of a young Lieutenant Georgiou come to mind, holding her broken console together with one hand while delivering kill shot after kill shot with the other. And, of course, highly decorated captains tend to be the ones who win wars. She’s heard Georgiou allude to her “more martial” past, but only in passing, or in anecdotes carefully spun to sound like something out of a twentieth-century space opera.

She’d thought them exaggerations. Now, she knows they’re just a happier version of the truth.

It makes sense, too, that the Klingons kept her alive. If she was just any Starfleet officer, her final moments would have been spent with a mek’leth in her chest. No; the Klingons had gone to the trouble of patching her up because she was familiar with ‘Fleet tactics.

And, Reno realizes with a sickening twist, they had kept her hidden because she was helping them to win.

The last she heard of the war before the crash, the Klingons were gaining ground—and fast. Their cloaking technology was one thing. Their almost precognitive ability to predict how Federation ships would move was another, and too many fell to the Klingons, day by day.

There had been no explanation as to how quickly and efficiently they took over. They must have had other officers locked up on that ship with Georgiou, ones they knew were tactically trained. But she must have contributed _something_ of worth. She wouldn’t have lived as long as she did if she hadn’t.

She wonders if Philippa knows. Not that she’ll ask her—if anyone, Pike is the one who can field that question—but, if she doesn’t, Reno might have to decide between telling her to clear her conscience, and not telling her, so Philippa’s own conscience can stay clear.

She hopes it won’t come to that, for both their sakes.

“Reno?”

She’s been quiet for too long. Philippa sounds scared, and rightfully so, after all their talk of taking each other as they are—Reno could kick herself. She reaches up to cup Philippa’s face, trying for a reassuring smile that probably ends up looking more like a grimace.

“Sorry, sorry. Just thinking.” Philippa covers her hands with her own, anxiety written across her features. “I just wish I could take all the pain you’ve had to live through and shove it right up T’Kuvma’s ass.”

The look on Philippa’s face morphs into a cautious blend of sadness and relief. “I don’t know if I’d wish that on him. Besides, Michael already shot him for me.”

“Humph.” She runs her hands down Philippa’s neck to her shoulders, trying to lighten the tone. “Well, y’know, I’m glad you turned your life around. Takes a lot of guts. I’ll add it to the list of things I admire about you.”

Philippa takes the out, expression clearing as she retorts, “Oh, there’s a list now, is there?”

“Yup,” Reno pops the ‘p’ for extra punctuation. “Starts with you having the balls to steal valuable engineering equipment, ends with you refusing to tell me what it’s for. Good stuff.”

The playful gleam in Philippa’s eye returns. “You know what else is good stuff? This wine.” She gestures pointedly at her empty glass. “Care for a refill?”

Reno considers her. “Normally, no. But for you, I’ll do it.”

“You’re fueling my addiction.” Philippa’s smile is knowing.

Reno smiles back, heart stuttering helplessly despite the unease churning in her gut. “For as long as you want me to.”

****

The room revolves slowly around them. Philippa’s face falls in and out of shadow like the waxing and waning moon, the lights in her quarters lowered to reflect the late hour.

“Dance with me.” Three words, offered along with her hands, and Reno had let herself be pulled up and into this gentle, swaying embrace.

Philippa’s arms circle her shoulders, her waist warm in Reno’s hands. Time falls away entirely in the deep brown of her eyes.

They had kept the conversation light through their second glass of wine. Philippa leaned into Reno, smiling when she wrapped an arm around her back. It wasn’t restraint that had Philippa initially sitting apart, Reno realized—it was her way of easing her in, allowing Reno to relax before pushing further. No wonder the boundaries between them fell so quickly when she saw that Reno was comfortable with her proximity.

Which brings them here. To Philippa’s beloved twentieth-century jazz playing in the background and Milky watching them from the bed; to Philippa’s hair shining like moonlight, streaked blue by warp trails through the viewscreen.

Reno sways, drunk on wine and physical contact, and thinks that she could live forever in this moment. In the shape of Philippa’s nose, the brown spots speckling her chin, the lines under her eyes that curve like a bird’s wings when she smiles.

“Reno.”

Her name in Philippa’s voice draws her out of her thoughts. She notices that they’ve stopped dancing; Philippa is looking at her, eyes soft in the dim light.

“Hm?”

A hand cups her cheek. “Stop looking at me like you want to kiss me, and kiss me.”

Reno starts a little at the frankness of it. Philippa’s smile is small, with some degree of smugness—she knows exactly what she’s doing—but her expression holds the same warmth and fondness Reno has grown to associate with her presence. She searches Philippa’s face for uncertainty and finds only a serene calmness.

 _She wants this._ The fact drops like an effervescent tablet in Reno’s gut, nerves bubbling up like carbon dioxide. Except, not like carbon dioxide, because gassy similes are the last thing she wants to be thinking about right now, _shut up, brain._

The hand on her cheek contracts slightly, fingers stroking along her jaw. Reno shivers at the touch. She runs her palm up Philippa’s spine. Finds the space between her shoulder blades and presses Philippa towards her, the swell of her breasts meeting Reno’s chest.

Philippa’s lips part slightly in surprise, or perhaps anticipation. Reno slides her hand farther upward, briefly kneading at the back of Philippa’s neck before tangling in her hair. The strands tickle like raindrops down her arm.

This feels right, in a way that nothing has been since the day _Hiawatha_ crashed. Philippa is warm and solid in her arms, and the fullness of this moment makes her entire being feel like she’s glowing.

“Kiss me,” Philippa repeats in a whisper. Equal parts request and command, which Reno has every intention to obey.

Still, she can’t help pausing to take Philippa in. This close, her eyes can’t quite focus on Philippa’s face, all her features rendered fuzzy around the edges. Reno thinks it’s the most beautiful she’s ever looked.

Ten months, eleven days adrift in enemy space. When her lips meet Philippa’s, Reno finally lands.

****

One kiss turns into two, which turns into Philippa’s teeth tugging on Reno’s lip, which turns into Reno sucking on the tip of her tongue, eliciting a soft mewl that Reno _feels_ more than she hears. Philippa pulls back only to tilt her head the other way, the new angle making everything wet and hot and _more,_ Philippa’s tongue teasing at her soft palate, her hand tightening involuntarily in Philippa’s hair.

Philippa breaks off the kiss with a _noise_ that will haunt Reno for the rest of her days. She presses her forehead to Reno’s, both of them panting slightly, sharing breath.

“You taste like wine,” Reno says, and doesn’t even have the willpower to be ashamed at how her cells are more scrambled egg than brain. Philippa doesn’t seem to mind, chuckling lightly as she pulls away.

“Do you like it?”

Reno can’t resist darting in for another light peck at her lips. “Normally, no. But I’ll tell you a secret.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mm,” Reno nods. “I think I’m developing an addiction.”

Philippa laces their fingers together and squeezes. Her smile is brighter than a solar flare as she says, “I can help with that.”

****

She wakes to the sound of her name, fingers carding gently through her hair. She’s surrounded by warmth and light and what feels remarkably like a cloud.

Philippa sits on the edge of the mattress, already dressed. Her hair is styled with just enough of a wave to keep it out of her face. Reno wonders, with a thrill, if Philippa decided to wear it down so she could stretch last night out just this much longer.

“Good morning.”

The aftertaste of memory lingers on all her senses. Wine and jazz and tingling lips, pressing again and again against Philippa’s; Philippa’s voice, a little huskier than usual, asking her to stay the night.

They had taken turns in the bathroom, a strange shyness coming over them after all their shared closeness. It was past late at that point, so she was already half-asleep when the mattress dipped behind her. Philippa settled against her back with a sigh.

And then—Reno found herself wide awake, unable to ignore the press of Philippa’s body. It felt good, so much better than she remembered sharing a bed to be, but she just couldn’t—she didn’t know why—

It wasn’t even a sex thing. At least, it was _mostly_ not a sex thing—Reno’s never really been attracted that way—but something about the way their shared heat grew and grew until her whole body was lit up with it.

It certainly didn’t help when the dog hopped up to join them. To his credit, he took care to plop down on Philippa’s side, but then the sounds of his snores joined the soft rush of Philippa’s breath and Reno couldn’t stop _listening._

She lay there for a long time, trying and failing to drift off. At last, when it grew too much to bear, she’d tried moving around a little, careful not to disturb Philippa.

Evidently, the admiral was a light sleeper, because she had woken up anyway. Something within Reno screamed at the loss as she pulled away.

“What’s wrong?”

She didn’t know how to explain—it was just this _muchness,_ this feeling that was too good, that kept her mind racing in a way she couldn’t understand. She told Philippa as much in broken sentences, bracing herself for the inevitable banishment back to her own quarters.

What she hadn’t expected was for the confusion in Philippa’s expression to suddenly clear. The admiral got out of bed, retrieved an extra pillow, and, without batting an eyelid, hopped right back over Milky and stuck the pillow between them.

“I tend to cling in my sleep,” she shrugged, tangling her legs with Reno’s. “Is this enough space? I can get another one, if not.”

Reno had stared, bewildered. “I don’t know?” It was a good idea—it made sense, she supposed—but now the too much from before felt like too little, a chasm opening between them.

Philippa seemed to sense it, too. She reached out over the pillow to rub reassuringly at her shoulder.

“Here.” She guided Reno’s hand to her hip, then covered Reno’s arm with her own, hand settling loosely on her elbow. “How’s that?”

It worked. Reno looked down at their arms bridging the space between their torsos and felt some of the intimacy from earlier return. “Better.”

Philippa searched her face. Her voice was gentler than usual as she said, “You know, you can always talk to me.”

Reno was still too unsettled to do more than nod. Philippa had eyed her for a little longer before letting it slide, both of them blinking drowsily at each other as they nodded off.

Now, she lifts her arm from the pillow to stroke Philippa’s cheek. The admiral hums appreciatively, tilting her head into the touch.

“Good morning, indeed.”

Philippa chuckles. “So you’re always extra cheesy first thing in the morning, good to know.”

Reno swats at her. “Your fault. You bring it out in me.”

“Hmm. Debatable, but you just woke up, so I’ll forgive you.” She stands, offering both hands to Reno. “Come on. Breakfast is ready.”

“You what now?” That wakes her up, Reno tossing off the covers and rolling out of bed without Philippa’s help. She whistles at the sight of fresh pastries laid out on the coffee table. “Damn, G. You sure know how to impress a girl.”

“Thank you, I try.” Philippa pushes her gently in the direction of the bathroom. “Go. I should have a uniform replicated for you by the time you come out.”

Reno frowns a little, suddenly remembering that today is indeed a weekday and Za’amah would not be pleased if she missed any more shifts. “What time is it?”

“A little after 0700, so yes, you might need to hurry.” Philippa clicks her tongue in a parody of an old clock, and Reno groans dramatically as she drags herself into the bathroom, if only to hear the bright peal of laughter it elicits.

As she goes to brush her teeth, her reflection stops her short. There’s something about it that’s different—she realizes, with a jolt, that she can’t remember the last time she saw herself smile.

The Reno in the mirror looks ten years younger. The tired air about her is gone, as is the resignation; her eyes are sparkling, cheeks almost rosy, and, bedhead aside, she looks like an actual human being.

It’s unnerving. She tries smiling again, just to see how it looks on her, and has to avert her gaze at once. She doesn’t recognize that person. It isn’t her.

And yet—it is, irrefutably. She shivers a little, shaken, and hurries to finish without looking in the mirror again.

When she emerges from the bathroom, the sight of a freshly replicated uniform helps to ground her. Philippa turns around to let her change in a show of propriety. The old-timey gesture sends a tingle of warmth down her spine, and she hurries to pull on her boots before tapping Philippa on the shoulder.

The admiral takes her in with a smile. “Very nice—but you’re missing a spot.” Reno’s heart skips a beat as she reaches up to smooth Reno’s hair back, tugging to get some of the more stubborn locks to obey.

“There. Perfect.”

Reno swallows around the lump in her throat, a wave of awkwardness coming over her. “Funny, I would’ve thought you’d raise a fuss about my jacket being unzipped.”

Philippa hums. “Maybe if I were better at my job, but I must admit, I like how it looks on you.” She winks. “Come on. Pastry’s getting cold.”

Said pastry turns out to be French—and _very_ good. Even the dog hovers nearby, longing written across his furry face. Reno moans around a mouthful of pain aux raisins. “Sweet mother of Jesus. How'd you get the fancy shit on board a starship?”

Philippa licks chocolate from her fingers. “Lieutenant Pollard bakes. She likes to give me treats, which I then save for such occasions as these.”

Reno frowns, the name sparking a memory. “Lieutenant Pollard, as in Doctor Pollard? The one who chewed me out for half an hour for creative license with a laser scalpel?”

The admiral stares. “I want context on the laser scalpel, but yes, Doctor Pollard is my baking benefactor. What on Earth did you do to invoke her wrath?”

Reno considers her. “I probably shouldn’t tell you while we’re eating, but know that at one point, Pollard yelled, and I quote: ‘This tool was invented for a purpose, and that purpose is not circumcision!’”

Philippa, thankfully, swallows before she can choke on an ill-timed mouthful of tea. “Stars above. Now I _really_ want to know.”

“Tough.” Reno steals the last bite of croissant off her plate, popping it into her mouth before Philippa can protest. “You still haven’t told me about your secret project. Quid pro quo.”

Philippa appears to size her up, and then—so quickly that blind panic lances through Reno for a second—launches herself at her. Reno falls backwards into the cushions with a gasp, Philippa’s fingers digging into her sides.

“What the fu— _aaagh,_ Philippa—!” She squirms desperately, cursing her unzipped jacket for the swift and merciless tickling that goes on and on and _on._ “Stop it—no, stop it—oh my _God stop it please stop it please._ ”

The pressure against her sides eases, Philippa’s fingers slowing their path across her ribs before coming to a halt. Reno shuts her eyes, tipping her head back and taking a moment to just _breathe._

When she opens them, she almost wishes she hadn’t. Philippa is _on top of her,_ her face inches away from Reno’s. Her throat goes dry. She swallows past it, suddenly hyper-aware of all the places their bodies are touching, i.e. _everywhere._

Philippa seems to realize the same thing. Her gaze sharpens, considering. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, she drags her palms up and over Reno’s chest, trailing sparks in their wake.

Her hands knead briefly at Reno’s shoulders before continuing upward, touch gentle against the sides of her neck before coming to rest against her face. Reno feels the blood rush to her cheeks, warming them even more than Philippa’s thumbs stroking over her skin.

“Please,” she finds herself saying, softer this time. Philippa nods a little before leaning in.

The kiss is soft and delicate and _oh,_ so torturously slow. Philippa’s lips pluck ever so lightly at hers, tongue darting out to tease. She groans, reaching up to tug at Philippa’s hair, trying to pull her closer, deeper, wanting to taste—

An electronic chime, followed by “Five minutes to start of alpha shift,” jolts them both apart. A pang gnaws at Reno’s gut as Philippa pulls away with a regretful smile.

“Next time?”

Reno helps her up before standing, herself. She sways a little, lightheaded from the kiss; Philippa steadies her with a hand that seems to burn right through her uniform. “You better, or I’m beaming your dog onto Tau Ceti III.”

Philippa tugs lightly at Reno’s jacket, straightening it. “You know I will. Milky, be good.” She bends to hug the dog, who wags his tail in assent. “Alright, let’s go.”

She strides towards the doors, but stops once they open, winking at Reno. “Commander.”

“Admiral.” It’s funny—they could just as easily have walked out together, but of course Philippa wanted to hold the doors for her. “You going to walk me to work, too?”

“Tempting, but I’m afraid I have business on the bridge.” She glances around as if to check that they’re alone, and, seeing that they are, takes Reno’s hand and squeezes. “I’ll see you around?”

“You know you will.”

Philippa smiles, lifting Reno’s hand to her lips. “Till lunch, then. Don’t go having any wine without me.”

The turbolift arrives. Philippa steps in, clasping her hands behind her back. The picture-perfect officer, as Command types so often are.

Just before the doors shut, she flashes Reno one last cheeky wink.

Reno exhales deeply and heads for the stairs. Lunchtime, she decides, can’t come soon enough.

****

Except that lunch never happens, because she gets locked into the spore lab and a blob of magic mushrooms manages to assimilate an ensign, which is insane enough without them having to _drill a hole in her head_.

(It doesn’t help that the guy in charge of said spore lab is all brag and bluster. It gets under her skin in a way only Uine ever did before—a fact she immediately shoves deep, deep down, not wanting to think about it any more.)

There’s some kind of dynamic going on with Stamets and Tilly, whether it’s an actual parent-child one or just a mentor-mentee kind of thing. Reno cracks her communicator open for its power amplifier while he fusses, racking her brain for a better way, any way other than this.

There isn’t one. Stamets takes the drill—she doesn’t try to fight him on it, has a feeling he’d insist on being the one to do it anyway—and Reno fights down the bile rising in her throat to sterilize the wound.

At least whatever the mushrooms have Tilly tripping on are inhibiting the worst of the pain. A chill runs down Reno’s spine at the personality shift, May pushing Tilly aside in her own head.

They cut the ensign out of the blob. It would be over then, but then the damn mushrooms swallow her again and she just straight up _ceases to exist._ Stamets goes into full panic mode, leaving it to Reno to comm for help and try to calm him down.

She leaves him be after he snaps, “You can’t fix this with duct tape, can you? So get the _fuck_ out of my lab!” It doesn’t hurt, per se—she could give a fuck what he thinks of her—but it’s the uselessness that gets to her, the need to wait for the others on the outside to prize the doors open before she can actually do anything.

Za’amah is right there as soon as they break through, a firm hand on Reno’s arm drawing her attention. “Bridge. Be prepared to give a full report.”

Reno nods and moves towards the turbolift. Her head still feels funny from tripping on literal shrooms, which she’s going to have to explain to the captain in a minute, because apparently this is her life now. Fun times.

“Make way!”

She barely dodges in time to avoid being run over. She stares after the figure, something familiar about them and their voice—it’s Burnham, she realizes. Stamets had mentioned she was Tilly’s roommate. She must be in a state.

She shakes her head, trying to clear it. Bridge. She needs to go, now.

Despite knowing the crew, she’s only actually been on the bridge once, when she first came on board. The captain had shown her around himself, though she’d been too zoned out to really pay attention. It looks as unfamiliar to her now as if she’d never seen it. She notes with vague interest that she knows everyone here; Rhys and Bryce have other friends they sit with at lunch, but they frequent the big kid table enough for her to put names to faces.

And Philippa, who doesn’t have a workstation here, but is standing beside the captain’s chair as if it’s where she belongs. Because it is, Reno realizes. This whole ship is technically under her command.

It’s kind of hot. Not the time or place to be making such an observation, but a distant, still shroomed-up part of her brain immediately fixates on it.

“Commander, what can you tell us about Ensign Tilly’s abduction? Start at the beginning, please, and spare no details.”

Pike’s voice shakes her back to the present. She casts one last look at Georgiou before turning to the captain.

As she launches into the tale of the last however many hours, she’s acutely aware of the admiral’s eyes on her. Everyone is staring at her, of course—but Philippa’s gaze is the one that bores into her skull. It grows increasingly uncomfortable. She’s beginning to come down off that adrenaline-and-psilocybin high, and she doesn’t like how Philippa seems to be looking right into her. As if she can see all the secrets Reno didn’t realize she was hiding.

It’s not Philippa’s fault, of course. It’s just—it hits a little too close to home. They’ve agreed to be each other’s, Philippa hers and her, Philippa’s, but Reno isn’t so sure she wants to give that much of herself up just yet. She thinks there are aspects of herself that don’t even belong to her, yet.

She finishes her report and answers the few questions that arise (no, they don't yet have an idea for rescuing Tilly; no, there is nothing they can do to speed the process; yes, by now Za’amah will have taken charge and rallied everyone who is anyone who might be of help). Pike frowns at an unmanned workstation—presumably Burnham’s—before turning to Georgiou, something unspoken passing between them.

The admiral is the one who looks away first. "Lieutenant Bryce, open a shipwide channel."

She waits for his nod of confirmation before addressing the room. “ _Discovery,_ this is Admiral Georgiou. It is the motto of this ship that ‘All things can be understood once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.’"

Now that the admiral’s attention isn’t centered on her, Reno can relax and admire the striking figure Georgiou cuts. Even the viewscreen seems to know just how to light her face to great effect, her expression ever calm and in charge.

"Ensign Tilly is one of the most enthusiastic explorers I have encountered in my lifetime. In our place, her faith would never flag until she made the discovery that would allow her to understand the creature that has hold of her.” Her gaze meets Reno's, and maybe she's imagining it, but Reno thinks she sees the corner of Philippa's lip twitch ever so slightly upward before she looks away.

“Have faith in your teammates. Have faith in yourselves.” She pauses. “Have faith in Sylvia Tilly, who has probably already solved the problem and is just waiting for the rest of us to catch up.”

That gets a reaction on the bridge, small smiles appearing all around. Evidently, Tilly is beloved by many.

Philippa looks around the room before nodding, apparently satisfied. "Georgiou, out."

“Thank you, Admiral.” There’s something knowing in the captain’s gaze—appreciation, Reno thinks, because someone had to give a motivational speech and he’s probably glad it wasn’t him this time. “I assume you’re taking your leave now?”

“I am.” She takes a step back towards the turbolift. “Detmer, do me proud. Owosekun, keep the bullshit sensors at max. Nhan, keep kicking ass. Bryce, if anyone calls, I’ve gone fishing. Rhys, remember I’m still a better shot than you.”

A wave of chuckles goes around. Reno marvels at how quickly Georgiou has put the crew back at ease. No small feat, given the gravity of the situation with Tilly, and how they’d just had some sort of crisis with a giant sphere (she’d only gotten the gist when the UT went down; she assumes whatever it was has been resolved, seeing as no one was currently losing their shit).

“What, none for me?” Pike jokes. He’s worried—Reno can see the tension around his eyes, the way his smile looks just a little too perfect to be real—but there’s something to be said for keeping the mood light. He makes a good commanding officer, which she’s known since she met him, but keeps getting reminded of at every turn. It would be irritating if he weren’t so goddamn _nice_.

Philippa pretends to think it over, humming. “Yes. Next time someone offers to tutor you in their field of study, don’t turn them down. You might just manage a passable understanding of astrophysics one day.”

The bridge crew goes, “ _Ohhhhh,_ ” in unison, as if there was some weight behind that statement. Rhys’ eyebrows shoot up so high that they almost leave his face entirely; Detmer just shakes her head, which Reno supposes is a testament to her history of service under Georgiou.

Pike rubs the bridge of his nose. “Touché. Have a good rest of your day, Admiral.”

“Likewise, Captain.” Philippa nods in farewell, turning—and looks straight at Reno. “With me, Commander.”

Reno hastens after her, heart beating fast. They stand next to each other in tense silence for a moment before the turbolift doors shut.

As soon as they’re alone, the professional mask slips away. Philippa pulls her into a hug that’s just a little too tight, her whole body tense with fright against Reno’s.

It takes a second before Reno hugs back—she’s surprised, is all, their personal and professional lives bleeding into each other in a way they haven't really before. Philippa shudders out a sigh into her shoulder as Reno rubs soothingly up and down her back.

When they part, Philippa’s mouth is turned down slightly, as if faced with a problem she isn’t sure she wants to solve. “You were shocked.”

Reno’s about to answer that yes, seeing a blob devour a human being tends to have that effect on you, when she realizes that Philippa is referring to something else. To the moment when she basically stuck a lightning rod against metal, which is never a good idea, but takes on a whole new level of _fuck this shit_ when said rod is made of gas and mushrooms and delivers a helluva zap.

She and Stamets need to talk sometime. Those spores are the most dangerous thing she’s ever come face-to-face with, and she survived a _starship crash._

“Don’t worry, Stamets ran a tricorder over me.” Philippa doesn’t look convinced. Reno cups her face in both hands, tilting her chin down to kiss her forehead. “I’m fine, G. Promise.”

Philippa bites her lip, but nods her acceptance. She moves farther away as the turbolift slows, the distance between them professional and correct once more.

The doors open onto the mess. Reno blinks. “My shift isn’t over yet.”

Some of Philippa’s determination from earlier returns as she marches toward the replicators, leaving Reno to follow. “It is now.”

“Chief—”

“Will understand, given the day you’ve had.” She stops, eyes searching Reno’s face before relenting. “Look, you missed your lunch break. There’s, what, an hour and a half left until the end of alpha? So you would only be cutting your shift short by half an hour. You could return to work if you wanted, but I doubt there’s anything of use you could do in that amount of time.”

Reno briefly toys with the idea of refusing, but, if she’s being honest, she could use the shortened day. “Fine. Since you insist.”

“Good.” Philippa collects her salad. “You’ll feel better when you get some food into you. And a shower. Then rest.”

Reno sticks her sandwich on a tray and follows her to a table. “You have any ideas where I might want to do that?”

Philippa absently pulls out a chair for her, as if chivalry is programmed into her base code, even when she’s not giving it much thought. “I need to check in on Saru, but I was hoping you could stay in my quarters? All the turbulence from earlier must have scared Milky.” She pauses. “And he’ll want his dinner soon.”

Reno takes a bite of her own simultaneous lunch-dinner—lunner? dinch?—before replying. “Yeah, sure. As long as he doesn’t read my thoughts. I think I’m still a little messed up from the spores.”

It’s meant as a joke, but Philippa frowns instead. “Are you sure you don’t want to stop by sickbay?”

“Would you, if you were in my place?”

They stare each other down. Philippa finally looks away, sighing deeply. “Fine. But you have to promise me you’ll rest.”

“I will.” When Philippa doesn’t respond, Reno rests a hand on her knee. “Philippa. Look at me.”

The admiral’s gaze rises reluctantly as she covers Reno’s hand with her own. Reno laces their fingers together. “I’m really okay. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

Philippa nods. She doesn’t say anything, but she flashes Reno a small smile before returning to her salad.

They finish their food in silence, hands still linked under the table. It makes sandwich-eating a little harder, but Reno wouldn’t have it any other way.

Philippa rests a hand against the small of her back as they take their containers to the recycler. The few people in the mess at this odd hour don’t seem to notice, and, if they do, they don’t care. Reno allows herself to move a little closer to Philippa, so that their shoulders bump lightly against each other.

Philippa buses her tray—and then, so quickly Reno almost wonders if she imagined it, turns her head to kiss Reno’s cheek. Reno feels a blush rising as she stares after her; the admiral smiles, a gleam in her eye that wasn’t there before.

“Problem, Commander?”

Reno realizes, with a start, that she’s still holding her empty tray. She glares at Philippa as she chucks it into the slot.

“Your fault, and you know it.”

Philippa hums. “Debatable, but I suppose I’ll forgive you.”

“Yeah, I’m dog-sitting _and_ warming the bed for you. You better.”

They indicate their respective destinations to the computer, Reno mapping out their trajectory in her head. It’s almost a perfect semicircle: Philippa’s quarters are near the rear of the saucer section, and Saru’s, near the front. Philippa slips her hand into Reno’s, as if loathe to waste any of the time they have left before Reno will leave her.

Wordlessly, she raises Philippa’s hand to her lips. Philippa sighs, squeezing gently as Reno turns their clasped hands over. She finds the soft skin on the inside of Philippa’s wrist and nips lightly before soothing with her tongue.

Philippa’s lips part slightly, eyes darkened. Reno presses one last kiss to the back of her hand as the turbolift chimes.

“Come back soon. Milky needs you.”

Philippa nods. “As soon as I can.”

She steps out, waving to Philippa one last time. When the doors shut, the air around Reno goes cold and empty as a starless void.

She shivers and hurries down the hall to Georgiou’s quarters.

The doors open without her needing to ask. It sends a frisson of warmth through her—Philippa must have programmed the computer to let her in, at once blanket permission and invitation. The dog nearly bowls her over as soon as she enters, not seeming to mind that it's her and not his owner greeting him at the end of this hellish day.

He happily licks her within an inch of her life before she remembers that, _shit,_ she’s still covered in spores. She shoves him back and dashes hurriedly into the bathroom.

The dog whines and scratches at the door, but Reno ignores it as she sticks her uniform into the washer. She scrubs herself from head to toe, blinking as the hot water draws her out of whatever lingering high she might have been on.

It belatedly occurs to her that she doesn’t have clean clothes—or a towel, for that matter. There’s one hanging on a rail and another neatly folded on a shelf; she grabs the latter under the assumption that it’s probably clean.

She tries very hard not to think about how this towel has touched Philippa’s naked body, and now it’s wrapped around hers. She has other things to worry about, like replicating something to wear and feeding the damn dog.

Milky butts angrily against her as soon as she emerges. Reno scratches his chest with one hand, typing a message to Philippa with the other.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** What do I feed your dog? Is there a replicator setting for psychic canines?

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** you joke, but there actually is

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** just tell the computer you want milky’s dinner

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** You actually went to the trouble of programming standard rations?

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** of course!

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** he’s a person too, reno

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** not my fault you refuse to acknowledge it

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Philippa.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Dude’s a fucking dog.

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** :(

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** quiet now

 **GEORGIOU, P. [R ADMR]:** quality kelpien bonding time

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Roger Wilco.

 **RENO, J. [CMDR]:** Come back soon. Dumbass fluff monster misses your cute little butt.

Georgiou doesn’t reply, presumably preoccupied with whatever is up with Saru. Reno collects her new clothes from the replicator and inputs the dog’s dinner order, Milky pricking his ears up at the sound of his name.

“You gonna watch me change?” The dog pants happily at her, which she takes for a yes. “Fine. Just don’t go telling Philippa. I’m not sure she’d approve of you seeing me like that.”

To his credit, Milky doesn’t try to stick his nose in her crotch or anything as she drops the damp towel. The tank top and boxers are cool against her skin. Philippa’s quarters, she’s learned the hard way, are always a little too warm for her usual sweatshirt-and-sweatpants combo; the admiral has been subtle about turning the temperature down when Reno visits, but Reno has noticed her shivering. She doesn’t want Philippa to be uncomfortable in her own quarters, and dressing down is hardly an inconvenience.

The increased surface area of exposed skin is conducive to cuddling. Reno tries not to think too much about it as the replicator dings.

The dog barks impatiently, nudging at her knees until she fetches his dinner for him. He promptly abandons her as soon as the bowl touches the floor. She snaps a photo of him devouring his meal for Philippa, not wanting to disrupt her meeting with Saru, but hoping it will make her smile nonetheless.

While Milky is preoccupied with his doggy chow, exhaustion begins to tug at her limbs. The bed isn’t far; as soon as she lies down, the wrongness she hadn’t even noticed niggling at her temples immediately eases.

The sound of crunching dims. She floats and sinks at once, the mattress surging up to envelope her like a cloud.

The scent of the sheets is familiar. A warm ache throbs in her heart when she realizes that it smells like Philippa.

She wishes she could bottle it up and spray it on herself like cologne. It’s the last thought she has before everything goes dark and quiet.

****

She’s woken by the sound of the doors opening. Something soft and fluffy peels away from her side, the mattress dipping as it moves; she hears the light scratch of claws against metal, the soft rustling of movement, a voice murmuring in low tones.

Reno struggles to rise. Philippa comes into view, her head turned towards the bed from where she’s kneeling on the floor with the dog.

“Sorry for waking you. I’m going to visit Michael and leave Milky with her, but I promise the next time, I’ll be back to stay.”

Reno squints at her, blinking back sleep. “What happened with Saru?”  
  
Philippa blows out a long breath. “Long story short, the sphere triggered some sort of evolutionary response that is believed to be fatal on his homeworld. You can imagine our surprise when, after the scare of a mercy killing, he appears to be perfectly alright.”

 _That_ has her bolting upright. “ _Mercy killing?_ What the ever-loving _fuck?_ ”

“Fuck if I know.” The curse is surprisingly dirty, coming from the pride of Starfleet; Reno can’t help gaping a little, though Philippa doesn’t seem to notice, lost in her thoughts. “He was so sure, so scared… but we barely touched him with the knife when his threat ganglia fell off. His vitals more or less returned to normal after that.”  
  
“Wait, wait, wait.” Reno stands, wincing at the loss of the warmth of the bed. “Who’s ‘we’?” The pieces click together in a stomach-turning twist. “You and Burnham? He asked you to _kill_ him?”

Philippa nods once, sharp. Reno moves closer, seeing, for the first time, that she looks almost like she did in the tunnel, sad and scared and old beyond her years.

“Oh, baby.” The endearment slips out as she pulls Philippa in for a hug. “That must have been so hard for you.”

And Burnham, who is also dealing with Tilly's abduction. That's why Philippa is leaving Milky with her, Reno realizes: Burnham's stoic Vulcan-raised ass would probably refuse help, but Reno's willing to bet she wouldn't say no to dogsitting. It's both sneaky and sweet of Philippa, making sure her Number One doesn't have to sleep alone tonight. If the war propaganda was anything to go by, the hellish day they've all had is just the latest in a six-month streak for Burnham.

She really should talk to her. Reno makes a mental note to invite her to lunch away from the big kid table soon.

She's brought back to the present by the soft whimper that spills from Philippa’s lips. Her whole body trembles against Reno's, all the emotions of the day finally bursting out of the bottle Reno’s sure she sealed them in.

Damn Command types and their need to keep up appearances. Reno turns her head to kiss Philippa’s neck, murmuring soft reassurances against her skin.

“It’s okay, he’s okay.” Philippa nuzzles into Reno’s shoulder. “You just checked in on him, didn’t you? And he was doing better, or you would’ve stayed. You did good today. Yes, you did.”

Philippa’s hands are fisted into the hem of Reno’s tank top. Reno starts rocking them, swaying gently to and fro in an imitation of their dance last night. “You’re the baddest bitch on this ship, you know that? Bet Pike thinks it’s him, but he has no idea what you’re packing. Must be a reason why Pollard gives you treats. I think it’s because you’re good to her. You’re good to everyone, aren’t you? Always doing good by your crew. Such a good captain.”

She’s about to correct herself when Philippa _moans,_ a shudder running down her spine. Reno blinks, startled. “Whoa. Is that, like, a thing for you? I should make a new list. Entry number one: _baby._ Number two: _captain._ ”

Philippa whines a little, but Reno can feel her grip relaxing against the small of her back. She presses a kiss to the crook of her shoulder. “That’s it. You’re in charge of this goddamn ship, and anyone who disagrees can fight me.” She pauses. “Or you. You’d be way better at that, actually, I’m just gonna let you handle that one.”

Philippa pulls back to press her forehead against Reno’s. Her eyes are shiny with tears, but her voice is perfectly even when she says, “Thank you.”

Reno runs her thumbs over the outline of her hips. “You deserve it, baby.”

She isn’t prepared for the way Philippa bites her lip, eyes visibly darkening. “Oh, _shit._ That’s a _thing_ with you, huh?”

Philippa blows out a long breath. If nothing, this tangent is distracting her from the tumult of feelings that was going on a second ago, so Reno’s counting it as a win. “Calling me that makes me feel… cared for. Cherished.” Her teeth worry at her lip in a way that makes Reno want to lean in and suck it into her mouth, _now._ “It puts me in a… very specific mood. Which is not to say that you shouldn’t do it, only that you should know of the… implications.”

Reno considers her. “You can say 'subby,' it’s alright.”

Surprise registers on Philippa’s face. She opens her mouth, only to shut it again, clearly at a loss for words. Reno chuckles at the sight. “I see how it is. One makes you want to lie back and be treated like a princess, the other makes you wanna shove me down and climb all over me. Have I got it right?”

Philippa huffs out another breath, a blush rising to her cheeks. “...Yes. I suppose.”

“Aww, look at you admitting to being a vers.” Reno places a sloppy kiss on the tip of her nose, Philippa reaching up sullenly to rub off the excess wetness. “For what it’s worth, I’m just happy to be here. Either is fine with me. Or both, just maybe not at the same time.”

Philippa shakes her head. “How did this turn into a conversation about sex?”

“Maybe you just have that effect on things.” Philippa fixes her with a look, and Reno adds, “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. _Everyone_ looks up when you walk into a room. You exude that kind of intensely fuckable air while also being completely out of everyone’s league.”

“Not yours,” Philippa counters, soft. It’s cheesy as hell, but Reno can’t help the little thrill it sends right through her.

“Mm. Debatable, but I’ll forgive you.” At that, the dog pushes between them, as if he’s had enough of their nonsense and wants them to pay attention to him instead. “Alright, alright. Jeez, what a dick.”

Philippa chuckles. “He’s a bit demanding sometimes. Mostly when he hasn’t had his evening workout.”

Reno remembers the time she found Milky running on her treadmill. “Oh, so _that’s_ a thing, too?”

“Very much so, I’m afraid.” Philippa scratches the dog behind his ears, shooting Reno a rueful glance. “I do still want to call on Michael, which, if I know my Number One, will entail a round or two of sparring. Don’t wait up.”

Reno squeezes her hand before letting go. “Only because you asked so nicely. Take it easy, okay?”

“On Michael? Never.” Philippa moves to grab a leash and a bag (“Overnight dog supplies,” she explains at Reno’s questioning look). “I’ll be back when I’m sure she’s alright. Sorry in advance if I wake you.”

Reno waves her off. “Go do good. I’ll keep the bed warm for you.”

“Mm, you better.” Philippa leans in for a quick kiss as she heads towards the doors. “Come, Milky. Sleepover time with your favorite aunt.”

Reno watches them leave, a strange feeling in her gut. It isn’t the same ache she felt when Philippa went missing for a week, nor is it one of the little bursts of electricity that runs through her veins every time Philippa touches her. This is something entirely new, something that anchors her, making her feel more solid, more real.

Ten months, eleven days among unconscious bodies. Maybe she’d started to feel like one of them, too.

The bed is as obscenely comfortable as ever, her body heat quickly warming the sheets. She throws an arm across the pillow and tumbles headlong into sleep.

****

She starts and settles before she even realizes she’s awake, subconsciously recognizing the footsteps scuffing the floor. Philippa moves right past her into the bathroom. A brief flash of light is thrown onto the wall before the door closes behind her.

The faint sounds of running water echo in her ears. She shifts slightly, freeing a foot from the covers.

She must fall asleep again, because she wakes when Philippa climbs into bed. A leg presses against hers on the pillow. A hand rubs soothingly down her arm before settling against her elbow.

Philippa sighs, minty breath tickling Reno’s nose. Shuffles around a little, then stills.

The warmth between them seems to amplify and resound. Reno lets it pull her back down, down, down.

****

“Reno.”

She wakes to warmth and light, her entire body floating on a cloud. Fingers card gently through her hair.

She yawns. Stretches a little, her arms knocking against the headboard.

There’s a dip in the mattress where Philippa sits. Reno opens her eyes to see that, today, her silken hair is in a braid that falls over her shoulder.

“Good morning.”

It really isn’t—Tilly is still missing, Saru and Burnham still traumatized. Through the haze of sleep, she remembers that she’s scheduled for a grueling double-shift today.

But then Philippa reaches for her hand. She laces their fingers together and squeezes, her smile as bright as a solar flare, and suddenly it seems like today won’t be so bad, after all.

Reno drinks in the sight of her, so beautiful in the starlight. Brings Philippa’s hand to her lips before squeezing back.

“Good morning, indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY DID IT YOU ALL THEY FINALLY DID IT
> 
> And by "it," I mean "gave me an excuse to bump the rating up," of course! Not that anything really M-rated happens here, but stay tuned.
> 
> Some fun behind-the-scenes writing trivia: The _Yeager_ was shot down at the Battle of the Binary Stars, and some of her crew (including one Lieutenant Ash Tyler) were taken captive by the Klingons. It's also a _Cardenas_ -class ship, which is the same as the _Buran_. Given that both Tyler and Lorca are security specialists/heavily combat-trained, I thought it made sense that their ships would be the fighting-type Pokémon of Starfleet. "More tank than starship," indeed.
> 
> The "happy to be here" line is absolutely a reference to Tig's comedy special on Netflix.
> 
> Yes, Milky is Legolas, and you should all make fanart, toss more suggestions for his costumes my way, etc. Philippa's wardrobe is probably 30% uniforms, 20% comfy things, 10% formalwear, and 40% costumes for Milky. Because priorities.
> 
> As always, leave a comment or come yell at me on [tumblr](http://andunetir.tumblr.com/)!


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